LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
DAVIS 


. 


UNCLE  ISAAC: 

OR 

OLD  DAYS  IN   THE  SOUTH, 


ME  AND  MY  REBECCY." 


UNCLE  ISAAC: 


OR 


Old  Days  in  the  South 


A  REMEMBRANCE  OF  THE  SOUTH. 


BY  WILLIAM   DUDLEY  POWERS. 


"  I  have  considered  the  days  of  old,  the  years  of  ancient  times.     I 
call  to  remembrance  my  song  in  the  night."— Psalms  Ixxvii,  6,  7- 


RICHMOND: 

F.   JOHNSON    PUBLISHING  CO. 
1899. 


LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
DAVIS 


COPYRIGHTED. 

DUDLEY  POWERS. 
1899. 


TO 

HOWARD  AND  DUDLEY, 

WITH  THE  WISH 

THAT  THEY  MAY  I^OOK  BACK  ONE  GENERATION  BEHIND 
THEIR  FATHER'S 

FOR 

AN  EXAMPLE  AND  AN  INSPIRATION. 


PREFACE. 


Maturity  had  not  marked  the  author  of  this  volume  for  its 
victim — maturity  means  responsibility  and  care  and  labor — when 
the  revolution  in  Southern  life  was  had,  and  its  recent  fashions 
and  ways  were  transferred  to  legend  and  song,  audits  exanimate 
factors  to  the  philosophy  of  history.  With  the  civil  war  the  atony 
of  a  lost  thunder  trembled  in  the  air,  and  a  generation  of  South 
ern  people  felt  that  a  Summer  was  ended.  But  a  disappearing 
immaturity— of  years — located  him  then  in  a  time  of  life,  when 
impressions  are  most  securely  fixed  in  memory's  safest  place. 
He  has  not  forgotten,  and  not  forgetting,  he  has  fancied  that  he 
must  remind  those  who  may  forget,  of  the  glad  and  better  things 
of  the  past,  which  may  still  follow  life  for  good,  and  preserve 
something  of  the  old  inspirations  for  those  who  can  get  them 
only  from  one  who  does  not  forget. 

"But  how  will  the  North  take  your  book?"  asked  a  friend, 
when  the  manuscript  was  read  to  him,  and  the  question  gave  the 
publication  pause.  Reflection,  however,  brought  the  conscious 
ness  of  the  fact  that  the  North  was  not  over  against  the  South, 
unfriendly.  The  North,  the  South,  the  East,  and  the  West  are 
the  Union,  and  what  is  of  value  in  history  or  tradition,  and  a 
pleasure  of  remembrance  in  one  section  must  be  of  some  value 
and  of  some  charm  to  the  whole  country.  The  author  had  read 
with  pleasant  appreciation  the  idyls  of  New  England,  and  it 
must  be  true  that  the  New  Englander  will  read  with  like  satis- 


12  Preface. 

faction  the  pastorals  of  the  South.  Then  came  the  recollection 
of  an  incident,  which  as  the  interpretation  of  national  friendship, 
that  relationship  which  binds  the  people  of  the  far  separated 
sections  together,  convinced  him  that  he  need  have  no  alarm 
about  the  sympathy  of  book-readers  anywhere  in  the  nation  on 
this  score. 

Sitting  one  afternoon  upon  the  porch  of  a  hospitable  house 
in  Riverdale,  where  he  had  spent  several  happy  days,  the  writer 
in  reply  to  a  requisition  was  tendered  a  match  from  a  gold  match 
case  by  his  friend  and  host.  The  beauty  of  the  case  attracted 
him,  and  in  the  conversation  which  ensued,  he  learned  that  it 
had  a  story,  and  this  is  the  story: 

One  morning  toward  the  summer  of  1865,  a  lady  sent  her  card 
into  the  private  office  of  a  well-to-do  New  York  gentleman.  She 
was  admitted.  The  gentleman,  after  courteously  receiving  her, 
asked  to  what  he  owed  the  honor  of  the  call. 

She  replied,  that  she  was  a  Southern  lady  in  some  distress, 
and  had  called  to  solicit  his  assistance. 

Through  the  devastation  incident  upon  the  war,  just  closed, 
she  added,  she  had  been  left  with  a  plantation,  but  without  seed 
or  implements  or  mules,  or  money  to  purchase  these  necessary 
articles  of  equipment,  and  with  no  other  possible  source  of  sup 
port.  Could  she  procure  five  hundred  dollars,  she  was  quite 
sure  that  she  could  make  the  plantation  yield  an  income  sufficient 
for  the  maintenance  of  her  family,  the  payment  of  the  interest, 
and  presently  for  the  liquidation  of  the  debt.  She  then  requested 
of  him  the  loan  of  the  five  hundred  dollars. 

In  utter  astonishment  at  her  request,  he  said:  "  Why,  madam, 
I  do  not  know  you  at  all." 

"  I  know  that,"  she  replied. 

"  Have  you  any  security  to  offer  me?  " 

"None,  sir,"  she  said. 


Preface.  13 

"Then  how  can  you  expect  me  to  advance  you  this  money, 
and  why  do  you  apply  to  me? " 

"  Because,"  she  answered,  "  I  have  heard  that  you  are  a  gen 
erous,  sympathetic  man,  and  I  believed  you  would  appreciate  my 
situation,  and  help  me  if  you  could.  I  am  a  lady,  in  much  em 
barrassment;  I  must  appeal  to  some  one;  I  selected  you.  I  will 
certainly  return  you  the  five  hundred  dollars  with  interest." 

Something  in  her  manner  and  speech,  and  the  pathos  of  the 
situation  prepossessed  him  to  grant  her  most  remarkable  request, 
and  in  spite  of  the  conviction  that  he  was  doing  a  probably  very 
absurd  thing,  he  lent  her  the  money. 

Year  by  year  the  interest  was  regularly  paid,  and  after  some 
years  had  passed,  she  called  again  at  his  office,  returned  him  the 
principal,  and  presented  him  with  this  gold  match  case,  asking 
him  to  keep  it  as  a  token  of  her  appreciation  of  his  kindness. 
She  told  him  that  she  had  taken  some  of  her  jewelry  to  Tiffany's, 
and  out  of  it  the  match  case  had  been  made.  On  the  top  of  the 
case  there  was  engraved  the  name  of  "  William  H.  Appleton." 
The  name  of  a  man  given  to  such  actions  should  be  remembered 
with  his  deeds,  and,  therefore,  in  violation  of  his  wish,  doubt 
less,  had  it  been  asked,  his  name  has  been  printed  here. 

With  the  remembrance  of  this  instance  of  Northern  gener 
osity  to  a  Southern  appeal  came  the  certain  belief,  that  those  of 
the  family  in  the  one  part  of  the  Union  would  be  glad  to  know 
somewhat  of  the  story  of  the  family  in  the  other,  and  that 
he  who  is  there,  while  he  might  smile  at  the  writer's  simple 
pleasure,  would  look  at  his  pictures  in  sympathy,  criticising,  it 
may  be,  the  attempted  literary  work  of  a  man,  but  not  the  happy 
facts  of  a  life.  So  this  book  is  published.  Dixi  et  salvavi  ant- 
mam  meant.  W.  D.  P. 


Note. — The  phonetics  of  the  negro  Dialect  have  been  required 
to  sustain  some  violence  through  the  orthography  used  in  this 


14  Preface. 

book.  But  this  has  been  done  in  order  to  facilitate  an  easy 
understanding  among  those  readers  who  are  not  familiar  with 
the  tongue  of  this  picturesque  figure  of  the  ancient  regime.  It 
should  be  borne  in  mind  that  the  final  "t"  in  such  words  as 
"  warn't,  ain't,  don't,"  etc.,  is  never  sounded.  The  author  finds 
his  excuse  for  sacrificing  the  dialect  in  the  benefit  accruing  to 
the  unfamiliar  reader. 

THE  AUTHOR. 


CONTENTS. 


When  and  Where  Uncle  Isaac  Lived. 
Uncle  Isaac's  Christmas  Recollections. 

When  Marse  Ran'  Got  Kilt. 

De  Sundays  an1  De  '  Ligion  Dat  is  Gone. 

Uncle  Isaac's  Experience  With  New  Things. 

Marse  Ran's  Hoss. 
Uncle  Isaac  Has  More  Experience. 

Uncle  Isaac's  Lament. 

The  Passing  of  Rebecca. 

Uncle  Isaac  in  the  Song. 

The  Passing  of  Uncle  Isaac. 

The  Old  Song. 

Mammy. 


WHEN  AND  WHERE  UNCLE  ISAAC  LIVED. 


WHEN  AND  WHERE  UNCLE  ISAAC  LIVED. 


JTC  HE  TRANSITIONS  of  civilization  and  the  revo- 
JL,  lutions  in  social  conditions  are  swifter  than  we 
wist.  Not  a  great  many  years  ago,  as  the  older 
generation  looks  back,  the  last  wearer  of  knicker 
bockers  could  be  seen  on  his  favorite  stroll.  He  was 
an  old  gentleman  then,  it  is  true,  with  all  the  charac 
teristics  of  his  generation,  but  as  with  the  stately 
tread  of  his  day  he  walked  down  Cary  street,  he  gave 
no  consciousness  of  the  fact  that  he  was  in  any  wise 
conspicuous.  In  his  grave  with  him  they  buried  the 
small  clothes,  the  silk  stockings,  and  the  silver 
buckles,  and  the  generation  swept  on  to  other 
fashions. 

Age  had  hardly  marked  his  successor,  the  wearer 
of  the  blue  swallow-tail,  with  its  brass  buttons,  and  the 
red  bandanna,  for  its  victim,  when  again  there  was  a 
change.  A  more  intense  crisis  thrust  itself  upon  a 

[19] 


20         Uncle  Isaac:  or  Old  Days  in  the  South. 

people,  and  within  the  stretch  of  their  every  horizon 
wrought  change.  The  substratum  everywhere  of  gov 
ernment  and  society  was  made  to  feel  a  revolutionary 
touch,  and  as  with  the  stern  finger  of  fate  it  first  de 
stroyed  every  condition  of  the  old  life,  it  then  under 
took  its  reconstruction.  Five  years  were  consumed 
in  its  work,  and  when  they  had  expired  between  these 
people  and  the  past  there  was  a  great  gulf  fixed,  and 
it  was  impassable.  The  old  life  was  gone  forever,  a 
civilization  was  remodeled,  and  the  spirit  of  Southern 
life  had  witnessed  its  own  metempsychosis.  All  things 
were  newr. 

But  rapid  indeed  as  has  been  this  change,  or  these 
changes,  the  children  of  the  fathers  have  easily  be 
come  accustomed  to  them.  The  old  days  and  their 
fashions  and  habits  have  been  apparently  all  too  soon 
fixed  in  history  as  prosaic  facts  of  a  mechanical  re 
cord,  the  generation  that  is  feels  the  force  of  the  older 
life  only  through  the  law  of  heredity,  and  in  the  sen 
timent  of  the  legend,  and  to  those  who  had  some  part 
in  their  lingering  peace  and  happiness  there  is  left 
only  the  wake  of  a  white  remembrance,  down  which 


When  and  Where  Uncle  Isaac  Lived.  21 

they  look  and  sigh.  The  past  has  become  a  "  song 
in  the  night." 

But  those  clays  and  their  civilization  must  stand  for 
something,  and  that  something  must  have  its  value. 
In  them  was  the  fashioning  of  those  ancestors,  and 
the  people  of  to-day  may  be  proud  of  them,  who 
were  the  potent  factors  in  the  making  of  the  nation, 
and  who  determined  the  early  trend  of  the  present 
life  and  character.  In  the  nobler  impulses  now  and 
the  stronger  integrity  to  which  men  hearken,  there 
is  the  echo  of  a  voice  that  has  long  been  silent  except 
in  the  echo. 

For  veer  the  heading  as  you  will,  transform  the 
conditions,  and  shift  the  social  structure  to  other  con 
creted  foundation,  its  past  must  still  operate  in  the 
building  character,  remonstrate  before  questionable 
introductions,  and  stand  for  ideals.  A  nation's  le 
gends  and  traditions  indicate  the  climb  of  its  heights. 
The  critics'  sneer  at  the  past,  their  condemnation  of 
its  thought  when  applied  to  this  time  of  new  move 
ments,  and  the  smile  of  these  unwitting  folk  at  their 
own  fantastic  stories  of  the  older  days,  are  travesties 


22          Uncle  Isaac:  or  Old  Days  in  the  South. 

upon  the  philosophy  of  history,  and  treason  to  that 
which  should  have  ordered  a  notable  loyalty.  More 
than  this,  the  intensity  which  they  have  sometimes  ex 
hibited  in  their  adverse  reflections  have  created  the 
suspicion  that  the  underlying  motive  was  not  sincere, 
and  the  attempt  was  not  so  much  to  reach  just  con 
clusions  and  to  impress  them  as  to  tickle  a  majority, 
who  were  supposed,  and  similarly  unjustly,  to  be 
without  sympathy  for  the  past  of  these  people,  and 
inexorably  arrayed  against  all  their  previous  life  and 
character.  The  immediate  inspiration,  one  cannot 
help  but  suspect,  was  the  fancied  sight  of  a  demoral 
ized  market  adapted  to  and  ready  for  the  sale  of  such 
dishonest  stuff. 

Never  for  a  moment  has  any  man  had  cause  to  be 
ashamed  for  the  fathers'  past  or  the  high  demands  in 
those  days  of  their  chivalry,  generosity,  and  refine 
ment.  Nor  must  the  heritage  be  lost.  It  is  worth 
too  much.  But  history  will  not  preserve  its  precious 
facts  for  us  as  they  really  were,  nor  let  them  move 
among  us  forcefully  as  factors  or  with  any  accom 
panying  enthusiasm.  History  is  cold  and  its  facts 


When  and  Where  Uncle  Isaac  Lived.  23 

are  chilled.  Life-building  factors  must  be  warm  with 
a  soul-inspiration  if  they  shall  affect  us  for  good.  And 
if  these  factors  be  flown  out  of  history  that  soul-inspi 
ration  must  needs  be  the  sentiment  of  their  day,  a 
sentiment  persuaded  into  action  by  legend  and  the 
unworded  epic  of  a  reverenced  ancestry.  Sentiment 
is  poetry,  and  poetry  is  that  impulse  of  life  that  makes 
the  toiler  sing  as  he  toils.  Facts  without  sentiment 
are  dead  things.  So  it  shall  not  be  so  much  the  histo 
rian  as  the  singer  with  his  truth  in  romance,  who  shall 
best  set  to  work  among  us,  and  perpetuate  for  that 
work,  the  reminiscences  of  our  forefathers,  which  are 
good  and  worth  the  memory. 

Something  has  already  been  done  along  this  line, 
but  genius  has  yet  a  well-nigh  ungarnered  field  in 
which  he  may  gather,  and  from  which  he  may  vehicle 
the  ideals  of  the  South's  past  in  the  romance  of  lit 
erature.  The  writer  of  this  bit  of  a  volume  recog 
nizes  in  himself  no  ability  to  perform  any  such  task. 
But  he  dares  to  undertake  to  give  a  detail  or  two  of 
that  old  life  that  is  gone,  which  with  its  full  story  he 
would  fain  have  fresh  in  the  memory  of  the  South 


24          Uncle  Isaac:  or  Old  Days  in  the  South. 

forever,  and  whose  exquisite  simplicity,  the  simplicity 
of  a  very  real  refinement,  cannot  help  but  aid  and 
purify  our  civilization  and  culture  in  this  luff  of  its 
destiny.  In  even  in  a  bit  of  recollection  there  is,  for 
some  of  us  at  least,  something  of  the  sweet  things  of 
the  past. 

Not  far  from  the  banks  of  the  Appomattox  the  old 
house  stands.  It  was  built  in  the  early  days  of  the 
century,  but  it  has  grown  much  since  its  original 
owner  died,  and  in  obedience  to  the  exactions  of  a 
constantly  unsatisfied  hospitality,  until  it  has  reached 
the  edge  of  the  hill.  Its  rooms  are  large  and  many, 
and  its  halls,  sometimes  broad  and  sometimes  nar 
row,  follow  no  straight  line  as  they  lead  to  the  various 
chambers  and  reception  rooms.  The  green  room  is 
here,  around  the  first  angle  is  the  blue,  further  on 
still  is  the  red  room,  and  above  and  to  the  left  is  the 
haunted  room.  It  was  always  haunted.  Certainly  in 
the  remembrance  of  all  who  knew  the  house  the  fact 
that  it  was  haunted  had  long  been  fixed.  Every  occu 
pant  of  that  room  had  been  initiated  into  fright  by 
queer  murmurs  and  well  breathed  sighs.  There  was 


When  and  Where  Uncle  Isaac  Lived.  25 

evidently  an  uncanny  resident  in  that  room,  and  the 
family  became  so  accustomed  to  his  continuance  that 
his  freakish  sounds  were  catalogued  among  the  natu 
ral  noises  of  the  household.  They  were  all  wont  from 
time  to  time  to  fall  asleep  in  the  midst  of  his  peculiar 
ities. 

A  trellis  of  roses  enclosed  the  front  porch,  and  to 
the  fore  lay  a  circle  of  hollyhocks,  princess  feather, 
touch-me-nots,  roses,  violets,  and  heart's-ease. 
Around  these  flowers  the  roadway,  roughly  macad 
amized  with  a  crystal  rock,  wound  to  the  avenue  of 
oaks  and  poplars,  sentineled  by  a  tall  pine,  the  land 
mark  of  all  the  countryside,  and  out  and  beyond,  the 
avenue  between  fields  of  the  golden  grain,  or  stac- 
catoed  with  the  green  of  Virginia's  staple.  On  the 
other  side  of  the  house  the  grove  sloped  up  to  the 
shadowing  of  the  eaves,  and  separating  it  from  the 
garden  spread  a  hundred  yards  or  so  in  either  direc 
tion.  Squirrels  populated  it,  who  were  sufficiently 
intimate  to  accept  anything  in  the  shape  of  squirrel 
luxury  offered  them  by  the  children. 

From   any   door   a   fascinating   scene    developed. 


26          Uncle  Isaac:  or  Old  Days  in  the  South. 

Large  oaks  scattered  through  the  unfenced  yard  cast 
a  velvet  shade  on  the  grass  in  the  day,  or  at  night 
sifted  the  moonlight.  Oh,  those  oaks !  How  many 
thousand  watermelons,  ice-cold,  have  been  tasted  in 
that  shade !  That's  the  recollection  coming  from  the 
boy.  How  many  times  the  story,  the  old,  old  story, 
has  been  told  in  that  shade,  and  listened  to !  That's 
the  reminiscence  of  a  little  later  day.  How  many  a 
game  of  backgammon  and  of  chess  has  been  played 
there !  That's  the  remembrance  of  the  old  exile. 
Down  the  vista  between  the  oaks  the  symmetrical 
pines,  here  and  there,  straightened  themselves  above 
the  gold  of  the  wheat  and  the  green  of  the  tobacco, 
and  near  the  tracery  of  a  winding  thread  of  darker 
green  the  brook  chaunted.  But  they  called  it  then 
the  "  branch." 

Turning  within,  the  floor  lay  mellowed,  dark,  and 
polished  like  glass.  Woe  to  the  urchin  who  forgot 
to  wipe  his  feet  on  the  door  mat  before  he  trod  that 
dry-rubbed  hall !  A  calamity  of  malediction  fell  upon 
him  did  the  matron  or  the  butler  prove  or  severely 
suspect  him  the  culprit.  It  was  generally  a  nuisance 


When  and  Where  Uncle  Isaac  Lived.  27 

to  him,  and  in  rainy  weather,  when  the  red  mud 
showed  plainly,  an  abomination.  Parlor  and  dining 
room,  and  chambers  as  well,  save  when  the  carpets 
or  mattings  were  down,  had  the  same  care  and  polish. 

Here  the  family  lived  and  entertained,  and  rare  was 
the  day  when  the  breakfast  or  the  dinner  table  was 
without  a  guest,  and  rare  was  the  night  when  no 
guest  occupied  a  chamber  in  that  house.  For  to  call 
in  those  days  meant  to  stay  at  least  a  night  and  a 
portion  of  a  day.  They  are  all  well-nigh  gone  now, 
that  old  family  and  its  contemporaries,  generous  and 
hospitable,  true  and  brave  and  gentle.  This  is  just 
a  memory  of  them. 

The  tall,  lithe  father,  who  smiled  in  conscious 
pleasure  when  the  opportunity  to  welcome  a  guest 
occurred,  is  gone.  Strong  in  the  integrity  of  true 
character,  he  was  stern  before  all  wrong,  and  gentle 
at  all  other  times.  About  him  hovered  a  family's 
affection,  the  neighborhood  was  the  residence  of  his 
friends,  and  near  him  stood  the  colored  folk  as  in  the 
presence  of  a  friend.  The  cabins  and  the  house  alike 
loved  and  reverenced  him.  He  was  a  scholarly  pro- 


28          Uncle  Isaac:  or  Old  Days  in  the  South. 

duct  of  the  University,  and  courteous  with  an  ancient 
courtesy,  devoted  to  those  who  loved  him  or  were 
dependent  upon  him.  Every  night  he  sat  in  the  par 
lor  before  the  great  fireplace  concealed  in  the  sum 
mer  behind  the  graceful  foliage  of  the  asparagus, 
where,  surrounded  by  family  and  guest,  he  read  the 
Holy  Word  of  God  and  sped  a  prayer  heavenward. 
His  was  a  character  shaped  by  a  chivalrous  genera 
tion,  taught  of  the  scholars,  and  refined  in  the  im 
pulses  of  the  Christian  Religion. 

Matching  the  man  was  the  matron,  and  noble  the 
husband  noble  the  wife.  They  have  folded  her 
hands,  and  she  too  is  asleep.  They  were  chivalry 
and  purity  wedded.  A  twain  made  one.  Stately  in 
her  motions,  and  gentle  in  her  manners  she  graced 
the  house,  and  in  the  charming  delicacy  of  the  ways 
that  belonged  to  her  day  and  generation  the  gentle 
man  found  his  inspiration  to  gallantry  and  honor. 
No  impure  thing  met  the  eyes  of  her  daughters  in 
the  home  and  conversation  that  in  any  degree  dan 
gerously  approached  the  questionable  was  impossible 
where  she  reigned  the  soul  of  refinement.  Her  sons 


When  and  Where  Uncle  Isaac  Lived.  29 

must  needs  have  been  gentlemen,  and  her  daughters 
could  be  naught  but  maidens  made  fair  by  the  touch 
of  such  modesty  and  refinement. 

There  are  yet  many  in  this  day  of  fret  and  hurry — 
why  may  it  not  be  said,  many  of  us?  It  cannot  be 
wrong  or  impolite  to  put  one's  self  in  the  company 
of  which  he  is  proud — aye,  many  of  us,  who  can  look 
back  and  see  them  as  they  sat  with  us  on  the  rose- 
scented  porch  or  rambled  pleasantly  down  the  avenue. 
Their  white  muslin  with  the  waist  ribbon  of  blue 
was  enough  of  attractive  gowning  for  them,  and  no 
additional  ornament  to  the  flower  caught  in  the 
brown  hair  was  needed.  We  walked  with  innocence 
when  we  walked  with  them,  and  a  true  gentility  could 
have  had  no  happier  inspiration.  They  were  the 
touch  of  a  high  civilization. 

In  the  evening  after  prayers,  man  and  girl,  they 
sang  the  ballads  of  that  day.  Perhaps  no  appreciable 
description  of  those  evenings  can  be  given  until  the 
genius  comes,  but  we  can  hear  again,  some  of  us,  I 
know,  those  sweet  voices  interpret  "  Robin  Adair," 
"  Coming  Thro'  the  Rye,"  and  "  O  Don't  You  Re- 


30         Uncle  Isaac:  or  Old  Days  in  the  South. 

member  Sweet  Alice,  Ben  Bolt."  It  may  be  that  the 
rendition  was  not  scientific,  nor  even  classical,  but 
it  was  exquisite  in  its  witchery  of  purity,  and  winning 
in  the  fresh  melody  of  the  girl  whose  soul  had  been 
taught  in  the  always  chaunting  nave  of  Nature.  The 
men  were  their  brothers,  and  the  men  were  gentle 
men. 

These  were  the  ladies  and  the  men  who  were  to 
make,  in  the  opportunities  of  patriotism  and  where 
the  battle  joined,  the  fame  of  a  chivalry,  and  the  re 
cord  of  a  courage  which  the  world  shall  never  forget. 
Where  the  little  star-crossed  guidon  is  found,  torn 
and  shot-marked,  there  is  the  token  of  the  strength 
of  that  inspiration  and  the  sign  of  that  gallant  bear 
ing.  They  were  the  sweet  spirits  that  urged  men  to 
glory,  and  they  were  the  grey  clad  heroes  of  an 
everlasting  remembrance. 

Behind  the  house  and  down  the  slope  of  the  hill 
the  gravelled  way  led  toward  the  spring — sweet 
spring  where  the  evening  sun  often  found  boy  and 
girl,  or  man  and  maiden  drinking  the  cool  water,  and 
merry  in  conversation.  Perhaps  they  were  a  bit  in- 


When  and  Where  Uncle  Isaac  Lived.  31 

clined  to  words  of  dearer  import  sometimes — and 
who  could  resist  the  romance  of  such  scenes  in  that 
contented,  white  day  of  the  Sunny  South? 

The  oaks  stretched  their  branches  over  the  walk. 
A  dozen  steps  from  the  last  door  fetched  the  fringe 
of  cedars,  another  passed  them,  and  there  on  one 
side  stood  Mary  Caesar  with  her  churn  full  of  butter 
milk  ready  for  any  boy  or  girl  who  had  brought  a 
cup  along.  Close  to  her  was  the  dairy  and  the  ice 
house,  and  across  the  way  the  kitchen.  Over  its 
fireplace,  in  which  a  rail  went  without  forcing,  Uncle 
Nat,  a  real  bit  of  polished,  animated  ebony,  reigned 
supreme,  and  who  for  the  asking,  with  a  word  of 
hospitality  spoken  in  the  negro's  quaint  way,  but 
learned  from  the  generous  master,  stood  as  ready 
to  give  a  hce-cake,  the  natural  accompaniment  to 
Mary  Caesar's  buttermilk,  but  the  making  of  which 
is  now  a  lost  art  and  the  meal  of  which  it  was  made, 
rich  and  sweet,  is  gone  as  well. 

The  people  of  to-day  would  stand  in  amazement 
in  that  ancient  kitchen.  Its  pot-hooks,  its  ovens 
with  their  coal-covered  lids,  the  roasting  pig,  the 


32          Uncle  Isaac:  or  Old  Days  in  the  South. 

broiling  mutton,  the  baking  ham,  the  basting  fowl, 
the  innumerable  things  that  were  ever  appetizing  and 
creating  a  longing  for  dinner,  and  above  all  the  old 
white-crowned,  black  face  shining  in  a  natural  polish, 
with  its  unmistakably  tyrannical  voice,  but  bent  to 
hospitable  intention — don't  you  wish  you  were  back 
there  and  hungry?  The  beaten  way  widened  past  the 
kitchen,  invading,  on  both  sides,  the  ground  once 
belonging  to  grass.  It  was  worn  by  many  a  year  of 
marble-playing  boys,  and  by  many  a  night's  double 
shuffle  and  back-stepping  when  old  John,  with  his 
banjo,  was  coaxed  into  the  light  of  the  full  moon. 
Thence  it  wound  hard  by  the  smoke-house  full  of 
bacon,  hams  and  shoulders  and  sides,  a  rich,  old 
greasy  treasure  house.  Its  mate,  in  which  the  gro 
ceries  for  a  couple  of  hundred  or  more  people  were 
stored,  stood  over  against  it  across  the  road.  Now 
the  narrowing  road,  crossed  with  many  a  path  and 
intersection,  rambled  among  the  cabins  of  the  colored 
folk,  the  vassals — vassals,  yes,  and  happy.  Clean  and 
neat  these  cabins  were,  and  marked  with  the  sign 
of  contentment. 


When  and  Where  Uncle  Isaac  Lived.  33 

So  the  wandering  took  the  stroller  by  Uncle  Julius' 
home,  and  to  the  door  of  Lucy's  and  Peyton's,  where 
the  boys,  in  a  time  of  unusual  hunger,  went  to  per 
suade  a  treat  of  scrambled  eggs  and  hoe-cake,  and  to 
the  spring.  Cool  and  clear  it  bubbled  in  the  shade  of 
the  pines  in  the  dell  at  the  foot  of  the  three  hills,  hills 
that  were  dotted  with  the  homes  of  the  quiet  colored 
folk  of  the  old  times.  The  bath  house  stood  on  one 
side,  and  the  wheat  waved  out  of  sight  on  the  other. 
Could  the  moving  shadows  that  play  between  the 
spring  and  the  tobacco  barn  repeat  the  stories  to 
which  they  listened  in  that  old  time,  they  would  de 
light  us  with  many  a  scrap  of  lovely  romance. 

Along  the  path  around  the  hill,  and  a  mile  away, 
the  waters  of  the  Appomattox,  river  of  the  sad  history, 
run  under  the  cotton-woods  and  the  willows,  and 
sometimes  boisterously  over  the  rocks.  Between 
the  river  and  the  spring  are  the  lowgrounds.  In  the 
evening  through  their  bordering  pines  once  there 
came  the  drifting  song  of  the  hands  as  they  wound 
their  way  homeward.  It  was  a  quaint  old  song  they 
3 


34          Uncle  Isaac:  or  Old  Days  in  the  South. 

sang,  and  in  it  was  content,  and  the  note  of  the  coax 
ing  rest  of  the  closing  day. 

A  sharp  turn  out  of  the  head  of  the  avenue  and  a 
hundred  or  more  yards  away  stocd  the  stable  in  its 
ample  yard.  Its  double  doors,  always  ajar,  opened 
a  vista  of  stalls  rilled  with  riding  and  driving  horses, 
and  rows  of  mules,  whose  crunching  of  the  corn-was 
interrupted  by  the  whinny  of  the  satisfied  guest. 
Parallel  with  it  ran  the  long  crib.  In  the  front  of  this 
building,  on  a  winter's  night,  a  great  pile  of  corn 
would  sometime  lie,  and  in  it  and  on  it  a  crowd 
of  black  folk  shucking,  the  pannikin  of  whiskey 
passing  a  little  too  frequently,  perhaps.  A  cheerful 
scene  it  was  withal,  softly  noisy  with  the  strange 
aria  of  their  monologue  of  music,  and  a  picture  of 
glee  and  of  toil  without  conscious  sweat. 

Along  the  road-side  from  the  avenue  to  the  gran 
ary,  peach  and  apple  trees  grew,  and  here  and  there, 
were  scattered  in  the  fields,  which,  barring  a  late  frost, 
afforded  fruit  for  all  during  the  summer.  But  two 
miles  away  is  the  orchard,  and  its  hornets'  nests, 
and  its  green  apples,  and  the  battle,  and  the  flight— 


When  and  Where  Uncle  Isaac  Lived.  35 

not  of  the  hornets.  Then  a  reach  of  aromatic  pines, 
and  the  lake  and  the  mill.  On  the  top  of  the  red  hill 
is  the  granary  where  the  threshing  and  the  garnering 
were  had,  and  from  its  rick  of  straw  radiated  the  paths 
down  which  the  boys  were  wont  to  hurry  in  the  early 
morning  all  excited  in  the  examination  of  the  hare 
traps,  and  the  securing  of  the  spoil. 

"  Rosemary,  that's  for  remembrance." 

It  is  morning.  The  mists  are  curling  up  from  the 
river.  The  grey  touches  the  dark  horizon  of  the  East. 
Beneath  the  big  yard  oak,  the  master  winds  the  clear 
note  of  the  horn,  and  from  the  cabins  by  hill  and  dale 
the  contented  hands  go  to  their  several  occupations. 
The  hours  creep  on  toward  well  past  the  sunrise, 
and  the  "  Good  Mornings  "  greet  one  and  another 
of  the  family  and  the  guests  like  a  benediction.  Such 
indeed  they  are.  The  julep — smack  your  lips  O ! 
connoisseur,  in  a  nectareous  reminiscence — or  the 
toddy  is  served  by  the  butler,  old  and  courteous, 
proud  of  his  lineage — he  and  the  family  are  one 
in  aristocratic  right — which  is,  in  his  opinion,  suf- 


36         Uncle  Isaac:  or  Old  Days  in  the  South. 

ficiently  indicated  by  his  swallow-tailed  coat  and 
brass  buttons,  and  emphasized  by  a  mannerism  that 
defies  imitation.  It  is  in  him  grotesque  perhaps,  but 
the  accurate  counterpart  of  the  gentleman  whom  he 
serves. 

The  morning  passes  swiftly  along.  The  matron 
metes  out  the  rations,  enough  and  to  spare,  and 
orders  the  dinner,  and  settles  herself  to  that  superin 
tendence  in  general  that  constitutes  the  rest  of  her 
pleasant  domestic  responsibility.  The  gentleman 
rides  to  the  fields,  and  in  chat  and  stroll,  and  it  may 
be  with  a  wistful  glance  revealing  the  refining  motion 
of  a  tender  passion  the  younger  people  forget  the 
slipping  hours.  But  before  that  those  girls  have 
done  their  assigned  duties  in  the  household,  and 
have  surely  read  a  chapter  in  the  Holy  Bible. 

Then  across  field  and  stream  the  winding  horn 
sounds  the  fact  of  noon,  and  luncheon,  and  rest.  But 
not  luncheon,  "  snack."  Dinner  it  is  in  the  fields, 
under  the  shade  of  the  walnut  or  the  peach.  The 
ash-cake,  the  rich,  red  gravy,  the  broiled  bacon, 
and  the  molasses  tickle  the  appetite,  and  the  ice-cold 


When  and  Where  Uncle  Isaac  Lived.  37 

buttermilk,  the  champagne  of  Virginia,  washes  it 
all  down.  Certain  remembrances  are  synonymous 
with  sacred  hunger. 

Again  the  sweep  and  swish  of  the  cradles  in  the 
wheat  is  heard,  and  the  weird  chant  sturdily  sung  of 
the  rivals  as  they  give  themselves  enthusiasm  and  en 
couragement,  and  the  chorus  in  which,  under  the  self- 
appointed  and  cordially  recognized  leader,  all  join, 
cradlers,  binders,  and  children.  The  bay  of  a  hound 
interrupts  the  chant  and  Molly  Cotton-tail  exploiting 
her  fright  bolts  across  the  stubble.  Down  drops  the 
cradle,  the  sheaf,  the  bundle,  over  turns  the  half 
made  shock,  and  away  go  they  all  in  the  hurry  of  the 
chase. 

Around  the  angles  of  the  halls,  the  dinner  bell  sum 
mons  to  the  dining  room.  But  that  dinner  need  not 
be  described  here,  the  aroma  of  Uncle  Nat's  kitchen 
has  already  escaped,  and  besides  Uncle  Isaac  will, 
by  and  by,  give  his  happy  recollections  of  that  meal, 
and  still  again,  as  he  would  say,  it  would  make  you 
too  "  hongry."  Then  followed  the  dolce  far  niente 
of  the  Southern  plantation.  It  was  the  time  of  the 


3  8          Uncle  Isaac:  or  Old  Days  in  the  South. 

nap,  or  the  time  to  read,  or  to  write  for  the  evening's 
mail. 

The  hours  skip  again,  and  the  day  gets  softer. 
The  gentlemen  are  gathering  from  the  fields  and 
woods,  new  guests  are  riding  down  the  avenue,  and 
the  house  is  exiling  the  family  reconciled  by  the 
evening  air.  The  trees  are  beginning  their  songs, 
the  flow  of  the  river  is  slowing,  the  swallows  make 
high  merriment,  the  hogs  are  driven  from  the  acorn 
mast  of  the  forest  toward  the  pen,  the  sheep  drift 
toward  the  cooler  parts  of  the  pasture,  and  from  the 
stable  the  neigh  of  the  horse  falls  into  the  harmony. 
They  walk,  these  sweet  Southern  folk,  they  sing  again, 
they  speak  soft  whispered  words  along  the  avenue,  the 
bench  under  the  maple  listens  to  a  story  told  often 
there  before.  It  is  so  beautiful.  It  is  so  quiet.  It  is 
so  winning.  The  glad  days  of  the  "  long  ago  "  tempt 
one  out  of  the  right  line  and  the  writing  of  a  book's 
chapter  into  soliloquy. 

Oh,  Dee,  come  look  again  into  this  old  face  with 
those  beautiful  eyes!  Oh,  Nan,  come  romp  a  bit 
down  the  path,  we  will  frighten  the  covey  out  of 


When  and  Where  Uncle  Isaac  Lived.  39 

their  nest  once  more !  Oh,  Cousin  Alice,  sing-  again 
"  Ben  Bolt  " !  Peyton,  saddle  the  horses  once  again, 
and  let  us  ride  through  Ocmulgee  to  where  the  red 
fox  runs !  Come  boys,  and  as  in  the  old  days  "  lets  " 
ride  the  dawn  away.  Who'll  bring  the  trophy  home? 
Hark,  hark,  hark-a-way  Music,  and  Fashion,  Black 
Dick,  and  Rover!  Jolt  us  along  the  road  Isaac,  to 
the  old  Brick  Church  or  to  Grub  Hill,  and  we  will 
worship  as  before  in  "  sincerity  and  truth."  What 
is  ten  miles  to  Church !  It  will  be  an  all-day  meeting. 
Everybody  will  be  there.  We  will  dine  out  of  the 
basket  on  the  grass  in  the  woods  again ! 


II. 

The  civilization  of  the  ancient  regime  in  the  South 
was  a  picturesque  civilization.  A  feudalism  there  was, 
it  is  true,  and  projected  into  the  nineteenth  century, 
but  a  feudalism  stripped  of  those  conditions,  which, 
making  it  cruel,  had  exiled  it  from  the  older  countries, 
and  now  so  modified  by  that  spirit  of  gentleness 
which  makes  everything  great  that  it  furnished  the 
unique  opportunity  for  that  life  in  the  Southern 
States  which  charmed  all  who  touched  it.  Ruling 
in  this  feudalism,  the  Southern  people  were  a  refined 
and  hospitable  people,  and  their  land  was  quiet,  con 
tent,  and  happy.  Whether  then  it  were  right  or 
wrong  this  feudalism  produced  that  which  is  gone  and 
may  never  return,  a  picturesque  life  filled  with  ro 
mance  and  peace.  In  those  days  there  was  a  knight- 
errantry  as  gallant  and  as  true  as  when  the  lady's 
glove  was  caught  in  the  steel  headgear  of  the  cavalier, 
and  the  winning  graces  of  the  lady  were  a  stateliness 
of  generous  courtesy  that  compelled  a  willing  respect 


42          Uncle  Isaac:  or  Old  Days  in  the  South. 

as  it  made  plain  a  genuine  cordiality  of  welcome  hos 
pitality.  And  when  those  days  were  departed,  they 
had  well-nigh  buried  the  cavaliers.  Their  generation 
was  also  of  the  past.  Their  social  system  and  their 
notion  of  the  sovereignty  of  government  they  believed 
ideal.  But  whether  or  no  that  was  true,  what  fetched 
so  beautiful  a  life  could  not  then  have  been  all  wrong. 

Touch  those  times  and  you  have  touched  a  high 
impulse  of  humanity.  Go  back  to  them  and  you 
breathe  in  an  atmosphere  of  gentle  refinement.  Few 
can  recall  a  fair  cheek  then  mantled  with  shame,  and 
rare  was  the  man,  the  gentleman,  who  at  sometime 
had  not  found  an  inspiration  to  chivalry  in  the  gentle 
character  and  sweet  purity  of  the  Southern  maiden. 
Like  the  music  of  birds,  we  believe,  was  the  life  in  the 
Southland. 

There  were  vassals,  but  the  vassal  was  loved  by  the 
lord  of  the  manor.  The  lady  so  refined  and  gentle 
that  the  caste  feeling  was  forgotten,  met  and  touched 
and  spoke  to  those  who  must  come  and  go  at  her 
bidding  in  such  manifest  friendship  that  the  tie  which 
bound  them  one  to  the  other  was  that  of  affection 


When  and  Where  Uncle  Isaac  Lived.  43 

rather  than  that  of  ownership.  On  the  plantation 
there  was  an  esprit  du  corps  which  was  as  strong 
among  the  one  caste  as  among  the  other.  This 
feudalism,  which,  in  large  part  made  the  South  char 
acteristically  the  South,  was  a  poetic  thing,  without 
tyranny,  and  working  no  wrong,  save  where  men 
were  bad,  and  bad  men  will  be,  and  bad  men  will 
disturb  any  relationship. 

Perhaps,  doubtless  the  institution  of  slavery  was 
an  error  lingering  in  the  land.  Its  time  of  correction 
had  not  come,  and  in  so  far  as  that  was  true  it  was 
still  doing  a  good  work.  But  was  it  an  error?  The 
rationale  of  history  rather  persuades  us  to  believe 
it  a  factor  in  a  progressing  civilization,  disappearing 
when  its  task  was  done.  Regard  it  as  you  will,  it 
was,  in  these  days  of  which  we  think,  a  factor  in  the 
process  of  development  of  the  people,  who  are  made 
the  subject  of  much  pity,  pity  which  they  did  not 
either  seek  or  appreciate,  and  for  which  they  knew  no 
occasion.  Strange  as  this  may  appear,  it  is  true.  It 
had  taken  them  out  of  the  crassest  moral  turpitude, 
separated  them  from  barbarism,  and  placed  them 


44          Uncle  Isaac:  or  Old  Days  in  the  South. 

in  the  school  of  civilization,  with  all  its  possibilities 
of  destiny  before  them.  It  may  have  been  one  of  the 
"  growing  pains "  of  humanity's  upward  struggle. 
But,  be  it  what  it  may,  it  gave  the  slave  his  oppor 
tunity  now  in  full  fruition,  and  it  was  a  potent  factor 
in  the  old  life  of  the  South. 

The  chivalry  and  the  gentility  of  the  land  was  per 
petuated  in  some  degree  by  the  conditions  which 
naturally  environed  such  a  system,  but  it  was  in  no 
wise  fictitious.  These  exquisite  elements  of  society 
had  been  brought  to  the  South  by  the  near  descend 
ants  of  English  and  Scottish  belted  knights  and 
those  of  the  sturdy  yeomen  who  fought  under  them. 
The  Huguenots  had  given  them  a  vivacious  strain, 
and  in  the  Spotswoods,  the  Randolphs,  the  Lees, 
the  Fairfaxes,  and  many  another  family  of  like  posi 
tion  what  had  been  natural  with  them  across  the 
waters  was  of  necessity  natural  with  them  in  Vir 
ginia. 

But  since  glimpses  are  likely  to  leave  wrong  im 
pressions  about  that  not  emphasized  in  them,  it  must 
be  borne  in  mind  that  this  life  in  the  older  days  of  the 


When  and  Where  Uncle  Isaac  Lived.  45 

South  was  not  spent  in  wastral  dissipation  or  idleness. 
There  was  no  laziness,  either  of  thought  or  action. 
On  the  nation's  register  of  fame  Southern  names  are 
largely  written,  and  on  the  record  of  good  works 
there  are  wages  to  their  credit.     When  the  republic 
had  need  of  statecraft  Southern  men  along  such  lines 
did  noble  work.    The  Bill  of  Rights,  the  Declaration 
of  Independence,   and  the  accomplishments   of  the 
first  Congresses  testify  to  that.    Nor  may  the  country 
ever  forget  or  ignore,  whatever  the  critic  may  say, 
or  however  he  may  sneer,  the  notable  works  of  Jeffer 
son,    Marshall,    Clay,    Calhoun,   Toombs,    and   Hill, 
and  many  another  of  ability  and  usefulness.    When  in 
the  time  of  war  she  made  requisition  for  soldiers,  the 
South  showed  no  lack  and  could  feel  no  shame  for 
her    furnishment.      Washington,    Andrew    Jackson, 
Scott,  Thomas,  Lee,  and  Stonewall  Jackson  are  men 
of  national   and   of   international   reputation   as   of 
Southern  birth.     Not  by  any  means  is  there  intima 
tion  of  any  foolish   exaltation  in  this,   or  that  the 
North  did  not  do  her  portion  of  the  work  or  send  to 
the  nation's  legislatures  and  the  nation's  wars  men 


46          Uncle  Isaac:  or  Old  Days  in  the  South. 

who,  distinguishing  themselves,  gave  the  nation  a 
right  to  be  proud.  That  was  true,  too.  But  a  sketch 
of  a  bit  of  landscape  does  not  require  a  description 
of  the  earth,  and  in  this  brief  note  of  a  speck  of 
Southern  life  the  omission  of  any  mention  of  those 
other  portions  of  the  Union  must  not  at  all  imply  a 
criticism  or  neglect  of  them. 

Nor  may  the  South  be  taunted  with  a  lack  of  place 
in  literature.  A  reading  people  may  be  as  literary  as 
those  who  write,  and  what  the  authors  published,  the 
South  bought  and  read.  Books  then,  and  especially 
the  standard  ones,  were  channeled  more  steadily  from 
the  publishing  houses  to  the  Southern  gentleman's 
study,  perhaps,  than  now.  When  this  era  closed  the 
Southern  man  was  just  recovering  from  the  idea  in 
herited  from  his  ancestors,  that  it  ill  became  a  gentle 
man  to  sell  books.  He  therefore  did  not  care  to 
write.  But  it  had  its  literature.  In  the  polemics  of 
political  economy  more  than  one  Southern  man 
showed  himself  at  home,  and  easily  the  peer  of  his 
contemporaries.  Sometime  the  sweet  spirit  of  song 
inspired  a  Southern  soul,  whose  music  has  not  died. 


When  and  Where  Uncle  Isaac  Lived.  47 

Such  were  Edgar  Allen  Poe,  Henry  Timrod,  and 
Sydney  Lanier,  and  others,  and  a  long  list  of  writers 
of  desultory  poems,  many  of  which  were  gems,  and 
stood  as  exponents  of  the  possibilities  of  Southern 
poets.  The  Southern  Literary  Magazine,  when 
ruined  and  stopped  by  the  civil  war,  had  established 
for  itself  both  a  place  and  a  support  in  its  particular 
field.  Sometime  as  well,  the  field  of  romance  was 
gleaned  by  a  Southern  gleaner,  witness  the  Partisan, 
The  Scout,  Katherine  Walton,  and  some  others  of 
William  Gilmore  Simms.  In  his  Woodcraft  there  is 
a  rich  vein  of  humor,  and  Porgy  is  a  creation  of  which 
any  writer  might  be  proud.  And  in  the  more  sober 
and  stronger  works  some  goodly  tasks  were  done. 
That  it  did  not  do  more  in  literary  work  is  not  sur 
prising.  The  conditions  of  its  society,  and  the 
notions  fixed  upon  it  in  the  past  forbade.  But  these 
thoughts  belong  to  the  historian,  and  really  had  no 
place  in  this  little  book's  intention.  It  only  desired 
to  go  back  to  a  spot  in  the  past,  when  Uncle  Isaac 
and  his  ilk  lived  and  loved. 

Would  that  its  readers  and  its  writer  could  have 


48          Uncle  Isaac:  or  Old  Days  in  the  South. 

been  taken  there  in  the  coach  with  its  folding  steps, 
and  its  boot  for  the  guest's  or  the  family's  trunk, 
the  seat  on  which  the  boy's  surreptitious  ride  was  so 
often  pleasantly  secured.  But  the  coach,  too,  is  gone 
with  the  knickerbockers,  the  swallow-tail,  Uncle  Isaac 
and  his  gentle  folk  of  that  day. 

But  Uncle  Isaac  shall  posthumously  tell  of  these 
days  himself,  and  what  he  says  is  true.  His  testimony 
may  not  be  impeached. 

It  is  quite  true  that  that  requires  a  considerable 
draft  upon  the  credulity  of  some  people,  but  many 
there  are  yet  who  will  give  him  all  necessary  corro- 
boration.  In  the  mouth  of  many  witnesses  what  he 
says  may  be  established.  Indeed  the  incredulous  are 
incredulous  only  because  they  did  not  take  advantage 
of  the  opportunity,  once  afforded,  to  see,  or  lived  too 
late  to  see  him  and  his  people,  or  have  been  persuaded 
into  skepticism  by  inaccurate,  if  not  untrue,  narrators 
of  his  story. 

In  that  picturesque  life  in  the  South  his  reality, 
the  butler,  was  a  conspicuously  picturesque  figure. 
Uncle  Julius  Caesar  it  was  in  the  country,  Uncle  Miles 


When  and  Where  Uncle  Isaac  Lived.  49 

in  the  city,  and  who  that  knew  them  can  fail  to  re 
member  them?  He  had  all  of  the  aristocratic  notions 
of  his  master,  shared  in  the  pride  of  the  family,  and 
excelled  in  a  gratifying  pomposity.  He  was  largely 
impressed  with  his  responsibility  for  the  family's 
honor,  and  the  courtliness  of  his  welcome  at  the  door 
never  failed  to  impress  the  visitor.  His  etiquette 
embroidering  his  character  with  something  over 
much  like  tinsel  to  the  stranger  was  a  genuine  article, 
and  a  real  finish  to  a  real  personality — a  species  of 
Southern  dilettanteism  in  hyperbole.  Many  were 
the  functions  and  much  was  the  authority  that  he 
arrogated  to  himself  without  contradiction  or  rebuke, 
and  this  had  continued  until  both  he  and  others  be 
came  reconciled  to  his  assumptions,  and  half  way 
recognized  them  as  his  right.  And  nothing  was  more 
noticeable  in  this  connection  than  the  constitution 
of  himself  as  the  instructor  of  all  other  servants  in 
matters  of  decorum,  and  as  the  teacher  of  the  children 
in  what  he  denominated  "  good  manners."  The 
apprentice  to  the  butler  had  a  severe  curriculum  and 
4 


50         Uncle  Isaac:  or  Old  Days  in  the  South. 

a  stern  task-master.  In  fact  of  Uncle  Julius  Caesar, 
or  "  Daddy,"  all  stood  in  considerable  awe. 

"  Howcum  you  use  dat  sort  ob  languidge  now, 
Marse  Charley?  Don't  you  kno'  you  oughtn't  to 
talk  in  no  sich  ob  a  way?  Hit  'tain't  perlite,  an' 
yo'  Par  would  be  mighty  mad  ef  he  knowed  about 
hit.  You  ought  to  be  shame  ob  yo'sef,  dat's  what  you 
ought  to  be,  an'  I  don't  want  to  hear  you  talk  in  no 
sich  ob  a  way  agin.  Young  fokes  ob  yo'  quality 
ought  to  'spress  demselves  in  a  gin'rous  'zaggeration, 
Sar,"  was  the  fashion  of  frequent  speech  on  his  part 
with  which  the  younger  generation  was  entirely 
familiar. 

"  I  cuarn't  bar  to  see  you  stickin'  yo'  fingers  in 
dat  dar  jar  ob  sarbes,  Miss  Kate,  I'm  so  sorry  I'm 
mos'  estressed  dat  I  cotched  you.  Lordy,  Lordy,  dat 
a  chile  ob  yo'  Mar  should  do  sich  ob  a  thing !  How 
cum  you  chilluns  cuarn't  larn  de  fashionables'  man 
ners  what  nat'rully  belongs  to  you?  De  tarpretations 
ob  somethings  is  pas'  my  complehensions."  And  so 
the  young  lady,  not  yet  in  her  teens,  escaped  no  more 
easily  than  her  brother. 


When  and  Where  Uncle  Isaac  Lived.  51 

"  In  de  name  ob  Common  Sense,  Marse  Jeems, 
why  don't  you  wipe  yo'  feet  on  de  mat  befo' 
de  do'  befo'  you  come  into  de  house?  Dat  flo'  was 
scoured  dis  mornin',  an'  Becky  is  spent  a  whole  hour 
a  dry-rubbin'  ob  hit.  Jes'  look  a  dar  at  what  you  is 
done  done  to  de  hall  flo'.  Hit's  farly  spilt.  Yo'  Par 
is  a  gempman,  an'  yo'  Mar  is  a  high  quality  lady,  and 
yit  somehow  or  nother  you  don't  'pear  to  heritages 
nar  one  ob  de  manners  dat  is  rejoined  to  dat  breedin'." 
So  Marse  Jeems  was  scolded  more  than  once. 

But  for  any  of  the  family  he  would  have  laid  down 
his  life.  Often  he  was  a  hero,  and  whenever 
threatened  danger  called  for  heroic  action  he  was 
equal  to  it. 

The  affection  of  the  black  Mammy  for  her  white 
"  chile  "  had  no  limitation,  and  it  was  honestly  re 
ciprocated.  It  manifested  itself  in  a  devoted  courage 
and  in  intense  signs,  but  it  was  altogether  likely  to 
be  somewhat  exclusively  her  particular  child's. 

Once  when  the  nursery  of  the  writer  and  of  his 
younger  brother  was  afire,  Mammy  Grace  rushed 
into  the  smoke,  snatched  her  boy  from  his  bed,  and 


52          Uncle  Isaac:  or  Old  Days  in  the  South. 

carried  him  safely  down  the  stairs,  leaving  the 
younger  boy  in  his  burning  crib.  She  did  not  wish 
him  to  burn,  but  the  intensity  of  her  anxiety  centered 
her  efforts  on  a  single  idea,  and  that  was  the  rescue 
of  her  "  chile." 

The  little  girl  as  naturally  returned  her  Mammy's 
kiss  as  she  so  saluted  her  mother,  and  the  boy  was 
not  one  whit  more  ashamed,  similarly  to  express  his 
affection  or  his  gratitude  for  something  done.  There 
was  nothing  in  her  power  the  Mammy  would  not  do 
for  these  children,  and  always  with  the  sincerest  token 
of  pleasure.  But  this  devotion  of  the  colored  people 
to  their  owners,  and  its  reciprocation  as  well,  was  one 
of  the  remarkable  and  unique  features  of  this  oid 
Southern  life. 

When  the  old  Mistress  of  a  South  Carolina  planta 
tion  died,  one  of  her  shawls  was  given  to  the  old 
Mammy.  It  was  treasured.  Subsequently  when  the 
dispersion  of  the  family,  in  the  attempt  to  recover 
a  livelihood,  occurred,  this  shawl  was  divided  into 
many  pieces  and  distributed  by  her  to  the  numerous 
old  servants,  who,  in  turn  subdivided  their  portions 


When  and  Where  Uncle  Isaac  Lived.  53 

among  their  children.  Some  years  afterward,  per 
suaded  by  the  recollections  of  home,  one  of  tne  sons 
of  this  lady  returned  to  the  plantation.  In  his  conver 
sation  with  a  son  of  one  of  the  former  servants,  the 
young  colored  man  told  him,  that  all  of  the  plantation 
colored  people  who  had  died  since  his  departure  had 
been  buried  with  a  piece  of  "  ole  Miss'  shawl  "  in  their 
coffin,  and  that  he  still  had  his  piece — the  last  of  the 
shawl — given  him  by  his  mother,  which  he  was  keep- 
in  for  his  own  burial.  There  may  have  been  a  bit 
of  fetich  worship  in  this,  but  no  iconoclast  would 
like  to  disturb  it,  and  it  was  a  splendid  mark  of  a 
lasting  love. 

The  drastic  calls  of  war  took  nearly  all  of  the  men 
to  the  front,  and  the  ladies  and  children  were  left 
almost  entirely  in  the  charge  of  the  colored  people 
of  the  plantation.  In  many  instances  there  was  not 
a  gentleman  within  miles  of  the  place,  and  yet  these 
ladies  and  children  remained  there  without  fear, 
without  even  a  suspicion  of  uneasiness  so  great  was 
their  confidence  in  their  colored  friends.  Nor  were 
they  in  the  slightest  peril.  They  were  watched  over 


54          Uncle  Isaac:  or  Old  Days  in  the  South. 

and  cared  for  as  by  anxious  affection.  The  crops 
were  planted  and  harvested,  and  the  plantation  was 
looked  after  by  the  colored  folk,  if  not  always  success 
fully,  at  least,  to  the  best  of  their  ability.  When 
the  Proclamation  of  Emancipation  was  declared  it 
wrought  no  change  in  the  colored  people  or  in  their 
family  relationship,  or  in  their  strict  conception  of 
responsibility.  Really  they  did  not  wish  their  free 
dom,  and  not  infrequently  the  purpose  of  the  kind 
master  to  emancipate  his  slaves  was,  by  them, 
strenuously  resisted.  The  identity  of  a  slave  with  the 
family  to  which  he  belonged  gave  him,  in  his  opinion, 
a  higher  position  socially  than  that  occupied  by  the 
free  negro.  He  was  accustomed,  therefore,  to  look 
down  upon  what  he  called  a  "  free  nigger,"  and  to 
resent  any  proposition  to  so  degrade  him.  This  is 
no  argument  for  slavery,  but  it  was  the  fact,  and  it 
made  that  condition  of  affection,  which  fastened 
happiness  in  the  South.  In  all  that  time  of  struggle 
and  deprivation  and  poverty  incident  upon  the  war 
there  is  no  record,  so  far  as  one  Southern  man  knows, 
of  any  disloyalty  or  desertion  on  their  part.  It  was 


When  and  Where  Uncle  Isaac  Lived.  55 

wonderful  and  no  greater  test  of  sincere  attachment 
could  be  made. 

Butter  became  a  thing  of  ancient  recollection, 
bacon  gravy  grew  thin  and  thinner,  and  then  just  a 
trifle  rancid.  Flour  was  scarce,  corn  meal  expensive, 
salt  could  be  had  only  of  the  government,  shoes  were 
too  high  priced  to  buy,  and  clothes  must  be  made, 
and  the  material  thereof  often  must  be  found  on  the 
plantation.  The  young  and  the  old  master  staid  at 
the  front  and  in  the  perpetual  battle,  where  the  wages 
were  some  thirteen  dollars  a  month,  and  flour  twelve 
hundred  dollars  a  barrel,  and  calico,  perhaps,  fifty 
dollars  a  yard.  There  had  to  be  suffering  at  the  home. 
But  at  home  the  colored  people  continued,  helped, 
and  suffered  with  the  family.  They  were  always 
faithful.  Faithful  always,  that  is  enough  to  say  of 
them.  It  was  heroic. 

Others  of  them  in  the  time  of  unhappy  war  showed 
themselves  in  other  ways  as  devoted  and  as  heroic. 
The  negro  then  was  not  brave.  It  was  not  expected 
that  he  should  be,  But  when  the  young  master,  who 
was  permitted  to  take  his  servant,  went  with  his 


56         Uncle  Isaac:  or  Old  Days  in  the  South. 

regiment,  his  colored  servant,  his  loving  friend,  went 
with  him.  In  the  severity  of  the  camp  life  he  lived 
unmurmuringly.  He  was  satisfied  to  be  near  his 
master,  and  no  one  had  greater  concern  about  the 
welfare  of  the  young  soldier  than  his  colored  body 
guard. 

"  Don't  you  be  a  gwine  up  dar  in  de  front  ob  dis 
here  fight,  Marse  Ran',  dem  who  is  behin'  is  gwine 
hab  plenty  ob  fightin'  befo'  dis  here  battle  is  ober. 
Jes'  wait  'twell  yo'  time  comes.  Hit  'tain't  no  use 
ob  gittin'  kilt  de  fus'  thing.  I'm  gwine  to  be  a 
watchin'  ob  you,"  was  the  somewhat  sophistical 
advice  of  Isaac.  Yet  no  one  would  have  been  more 
disgraced  and  distressed  had  his  Marse  Ran'  showed 
anything  of  the  white  feather. 

But  something  of  all  this  will  occur  in  Uncle 
Isaac's  recollections.  We  know  something  of  the 
time  of  his  life,  and  where  it  was  lived,  and  its  con 
ditions.  That  is  enough.  Let  him,  for  the  rest  of  this 
book,  tell  his  own  stories.  He  and  his  times  are  only 
a  remembrance  now.  A  remembrance  like  the 
fragrance  of  violets  along  the  pathway  of  the  absent 


When  and  Where  Uncle  Isaac  Lived.  57 

years.  This  is  the  fashion  of  his  reminiscence:  and 
if  in  it  he  be  found  a  partisan  of  a  pronounced  type, 
bear  with  him  even  then,  because  his  partisanry  was 
an  expression  of  his  rare  affection,  and  a  sign  of  a 
rare  loyalty. 


UNCLE  ISAACS  CHRISTMAS 
RECOLLECTIONS. 


"  MISS  KATIE." 


UNCLE  ISAACS  CHRISTMAS 
RECOLLECTIONS. 


Now  clis  here  Chris'mus  ain't  like  what  our  Chris'mus 

use  to  be, 
When  white  fokes  warn't  no  sarbents,  an'  de  niggers 

warn't  set  free. 
You  set  down  dar  Marse  Charley,  an'  you  set  right 

dar  Miss  Kate, 
An'  den  I'm  gwine  to  tell  you  'bout  ole  Chris'mus 

in  dis  state. 

You  kno'  dis  is  Virginny,  old  Virginny  is  her  name, 
An'  whar  dey  use  to  hab  sich  good  things  'twas  a  sin 

an'  shame. 
Dis  state  warn't  like  dem  odder  states  up  Norf  or  way 

down  Souf, 
We  neber  had  much  sno'  an'  ice,  an'  hardly  eber 

drouf. 

[63] 


64          Uncle  Isaac:  or  Old  Days  in  the  South. 

De  rain  was  plenty  for  de  crap,  an'  ice  enuff  would 

come 
To  las'  us  through  de  Summer  in  our  ole  Virginny 

home. 
Den  corn  an'  wheat  an'  hogs  an'  sheep  was  plenty 

all  de  year, 

An'  turkeys  gobbled  in  a  way  you  always  like  to  hear. 
Dar  ain't  no  use  a  talkin'  for  hit  always  was  a  fac' 
Dat  eb'rybody  use  to  lub  a  ole  Virginny  snac'. 
Dat  hoe-cake  an'  dat  'lasses  an'  dat  ole  time  butter 
milk 
De  chilluns  eat  upon  de  lawn,  dat  lawn  as  fine  as 

silk- 
Hit  raly  was  de  bestis'  time  dis  country  eber  see. 
'Twas  good  enuff  for  any  fokes,  an'  twict  too  good 

for  me. 
I  ain't  gwine  tell  you  'bout  de  dinners  dat  we  sarbed 

each  day, 
Case  you  cuarn't  'predate  all  de  things  ob  dat  ole 

fashion  way. 
But  'twas  de  grandes'  libbin'  dat  dis  worl'  did  eber 

see. 


Uncle  Isaac's  Christmas  Recollections.  65 

How  cum  dem  Yankees  come  down  here  an'  set  de 

niggers  free? 
De  niggers  clat  was  happy  from  de  time  dat  cley  was 

born, 

A  cradlin'  in  de  wheatnel'  an'  a  shuckin'  ob  de  corn, 
Is  beggin'  an'  a  stealin'  for  to  git  dem  sump'n  to 

eat — 

Deir  bacon  is  all  rancid,  an'  de  'lasses  hit  ain't  sweet. 
I  sho'   misstan'   dat  bus'ness  from  de  las'   unto   de 

fus', 

A  comin'  to  Virginny  an'  a  both'rin'  arter  us. 
Who  axed  dem  for  to  come  down  here  dat's  what  I 

want  to  kno'. 
Dey's  done  upsot  de  good  ole  life  an'  ruined  hit  for 

sho'. 
But  I  ain't  tole  you  'bout  de  Chris'mus  what  we  had 

dem  days, 
When  we  was  doin'  eb'rything  in  dem  ole  fashion 

ways. 
'Twas    Chris'mus    sho',    Marse    Charley,    an'    'twas 

Chris'mus  sho',  Miss  Kate. 

5 


66          Uncle  Isaac:  or  Old  Days  in  the  South. 

Our  hogs  mos'  come  to  killin'  an'  de  fish  didn't  want 

no  bait. 

De  Ian'  was  full  ob  music,  an'  de  banjo  couldn't  stop, 
An'  eb'ry  face  was  smilin'  like  a  bright  tobacker  crop. 
December  twenty-fif  is  always  Chris'mus  day  you 

kno', 

But  dey  begins  deir  preparations  sev'rul  weeks  befo'. 
Dere  was  mo'  chop  an'  choppin'  ob  raw  meat  an' 

mutten  suet, 
An'  spice  an'  raisins  jes'  as  good,  an'  didn't  we  fokes 

all  knew  it ! 
Anodder  thing — 'twas  roun'  an'  green — dey  use'  to 

cut  an'  slice, 
What  for  you  call  dat  thing?    Any'ow  hits  tas'e  was 

mighty  nice. 
Cit —  Cit — ,  Yes,  sho's  you  born  Miss  Kate,  I  had 

mos'  done  forgit, 
Lor'  me,  for  sartin  Ma'm,  you  'members  right,  Citrun, 

dat's  hit ! 
Den  sich  a  bakin'   an'   a  bakin'   ob  clem  cakes  an' 

pies, 


Uncle  Isaacs  Christmas  Recollections.  67 

Hit  make  yo'  motif  a  leetle  branch  dat  run  out  ob  yo' 

eyes 
Dey  pickled  all  de  oyshters  dat  a  one  boss  team  could 

tote, 
An'  out'n  de  pen  dey  picked  an'  took  de  bery  fattes' 

shote. 
Dey  killed  de  souf-down  mutton,  an'  dat  ole  time 

fatted  calf, 

Dat  would  a  made  a  prodigal  forgit  hesef  an'  laf . 
Dar  was  de  bigges'  turkey  an'  hit  mout  be  too  a 

goose — 
Hit  looked  jes'  like  de  'bundance  ob  de  erf  was  turned 

a  loose. 
Dey  gathered  in  de  taters,  an'  a  possum,  hit  warn't 

scace, 

An'  all  poke  sassage  dat  was  mos'  elicious  to  de  tas'e. 
An'  sarbes  an'  jelly,  puddin'  too,  an'  all  dat  sorter 

stuff. 
Hit  seemed  jes'  like  dem  good  ole  fokes,  dem  days, 

couldn't  hab  enuff. 
Ole  Whiskey  was  a  ribber,  an'  ole  Brandy  was  a 

branch, 


68          Uncle  Isaac:  or  Old  Days  in  the  South. 

Dat  flowed  to  de  plantation  in  a  stream  you  could'nt 

stanch. 
Ole  Marster  made  hit  into  punch  an'  what  we  called 

Aig  Nog— 
Ef  you  had  mixed  hit  wid  de  vict'ls  you  would  a  made 

a  bog. 
An'  apple  toddy,  which  I  kno'  is  mighty  good  to 

drink, 
An'  gits  yo'  hade  to  thinkin'  'twell  hit  don't  kno' 

what  to  think. 
Den  out  de  cellar  wid  de  cobweb  an'  de  dus'  dey 

brung 
De  wine  from  ole  Madeery,  an'  dat  odder — Now  I'm 

hung 
Ef  I  remimbers  what's  hits  name,  'twas  Shurry,  I 

belieb, 
Which    sifted    through   yo'    stomick   like    fine   flour 

through  a  sieb, 
An'  riz,  an'  riz  untwell  hit  struck  de  center  ob  yo' 

brain, 
An'  splendid  made  one  single  night,  but  nex'  day  dar 

was  pafti. 


Uncle  Isaac's  Christmas  Recollections.  69 

Oh  me,  clem  blessed  juleps  wid  de  mixeture  ob  grass, 
I  knowed  dey  was  among  de  things  dat  was  too  good 

to  las' ! 

I  hear  de  carridge  comin'  down  de  poplar  abenue — 
Dem  hosses  is  Marse  Peytonses,  his  grey  mars  Suk 

an'  Sue; 
I  kno'  cleir  trot.     Jes'  hear  dem  now  a  comin'  in  dis 

way, 
Jes'  like  dey  warn't  no  hoss  but  fokes  an'  knowed 

'twas  Chris'mus  Day. 
An'  yonder  come  anoclder,  dat's  yo'  modder  an'  yo' 

Par, 

He  was  a  Cornfed  sojer  an'  got  wounded  in  de  war. 
I  bet  you  in  dat  carridge  is  Miss  Julia  an'  Miss  Ann, 
An'  dat  young  brodder  dat  is  dade,  my  po'  young 

Marster  Ran'. 
A  heap  mo'  fokes  is  comin'.     Cuarn't  you  hear  de 

hosses  trot? 

A-booker  an'  a-booker,  dat's  anodder  hoss-back  lot : 
Marse  Joe,  yo'   cousin  Simon,  an'   Marse  Willyum 

from  de  Vale — 


70          Uncle  Isaac:  or  Old  Days  in  the  South. 

Dar  ain't  no  een  to  all  de  fokes  dat  figgers  in  dis 

tale. 
Yo'  Gran'pa  an'  yo'  Gran'ma,  an'  yo'  sickly  Uncle 

Bill 
Is  standin'  on  de  big  front  poach  a  beck'nin'  up  de 

hill. 

Den  sich  a  fussin'  an'  a  kissin'  you  ain't  neber  seen, 
An'  eb'ry  kiss  dat  dem  fokes  gib  you  sho'  a  kiss  dey 

mean. 

An'  eb'ry  chile  ob  dat  big  fambly,  all  ob  dem  was  dar, 
De  boys  drest  up  in  Sunday  close,  de  girls  wid  curly 

har. 
Jerusalum,  it  was  a  sight  dat  made  you  jump  an' 

cheer ! 
No  Ma'm,  Miss  Kate,  you  couldn't  a  stood  hit  mo' 

den  onct  a  year. 
Den  in  de  house  whar  was  de  Chris'mus  tree  dey  all 

would  go- 
Hit  sot  inside  de  parlor  near  de  middle  ob  de  flo'. 
'Twas  kivered  wid  some  shiny  stuff,  an'  on  mos'  all 

de  limbs 
Was  red  an'  yaller  candles  sot  in  lubly  golden  rims. 


Uncle  Isaac's  Christmas  Recollections.  71 

An'  on  dat  tree  was  sump'thin'  sho'  for  eb'ry  chile  an' 

man. 
De  ole  fokes,  an'  de  chilluns,  an'  for  eb'ry  maid  an' 

han'. 
No,  I  cuarn't  tell  you  what  dey  got,  for  all  dem  girls 

an'  boys 
In  heap  les'  time  den  I  can  tell  was  plum  armful  ob 

toys. 
De  grown  fokes  too  was  smilin'  an'  dey  showed  dat 

dey  was  glad, 
For  eb'rything  dey  fetched  dem  down  was  what  dey 

wished  dey  had. 
Unk'  Jule  would  git  a  Kercheefer,  an'  Andrew'd  git 

a  hat, 
Ole  Nancy'd  git  a  apron,  an'  dar  was  sump'n  too  for 

Nat, 
Unk'  Caesar' d  hab  a  pa'r  ob  boots,  an'  Sis  would  git 

a  doller, 
An'  dem  black  fokes  would  git  so  glad  dey  couldn't 

hep'  but  holler. 
A-clang,  a-clang,  a-clanger,  now  dey'd  ring  de  dinner 

bell, 


72          Uncle  Isaac:  or  Old  Days  in  the  South. 

But,  Naw  Sar,  'bout  dat  dinner  I'm  a  not  a  gwine  to 

tell. 
'Twould  make  you  bofe  too  awful  hongry — Dar  I 

yearn  you  laf ! 
I  clar  I  couldn't  escriber  hit,  I  couldn't  escribe  one 

haf. 

A  lis'  ob  all  dey  eat  dat  day  an'  all  de  wine  dey  drank 
Would  take  a  mem'ry  bigger'n  mine.     I  clar  'twould 

take  a  tank 
To  hole  dat  wine  an'  cordjuls,  Sar,  an'  as  for  what  dey 

eat, 

'Twould  put  ten  men  a  hystin'  hit  into  a  mortal  sweat. 
Why,  Lord-a  marcy,  Marster  sho',  you  fokes  ob  now- 

a-days 
Cuarn't    pos'bul    understan'    how    in    de    oler    timer 

ways 
We  libbed,  an'  eat,  an'  drinked,  an'  lubbed,  an'  made 

dis  life  a  song, 
When  eb'rything  was  'zactly  right,  an'  nuffin',  Sar, 

'peared  wrong. 
An'  ef  I  tole  you  'bout  dat  dinner,  an'  I  darred  to 

try, 


Uncle  Isaac's  Christmas  Recollections.  73 

You  wouldn't  belieb  hit  'twas  a  fac',  but  think  hit 

'twas  a  lie. 
"  Git  partners,"  now  de  cry  would  come,  for  "  Chris'- 

mus  eb'nin's  dance." 
An'   you   ought'r  seen   dem   chilluns  how   dey   den 

would  ra'r  an'  prance. 
De  ole  fokes  go  mo'  slo'  you  kno',  fus'  dis  way  an' 

den  dat, 

A  nocldin'  to  de  music  an'  a  keepin'  up  a  chat. 
Dar  warn't  no  planners  an''  horns  dat  dance  fcr  us 

to  play, 
We  neber  had  dat  sort  er  tune  for  us  on  Chris'mus 

Day, 

But  music  from  de  banjo  an'  a  jinin'  to  de  fiddle — 
"  Dar,  take  yo'  place,   Chassay,   Forw'd  Fo',   Cross 

ober  through  de  middle !  " 
Ole  John  would  sing,  "  O  clearest  May,"  Hum,  Hum, 

"  Wid  eyes  so  bright." 
"  Now  balunce  all,  Salute  yo'  partners,"  Pang  Piing, 

"  Ladies  right !  " 
How  dat  ole  banjo'd  plunk  an'  pling,  an'  how  dat 

fiddle'd  sing, 


74          Uncle  Isaac:  or  Old  Days  in  the  South. 

Hit  made  deir  souls  come  in  deir  feet  an'   cut  de 

pidgeon  wing. 
But  night  would  come  an'  darkness  settle  on  de  happy 

sky, 
When  on  de  poach  dey'd  go  agin  an'  say  de  sweet 

"  Good-bye." 
An'  some  would  be  a  laffin'  an'  den  some  would  shed 

a  tear, 
For  who   could   tell  what  was   gwine   come   befo' 

anodder  year. 
An'  dat  was  all  our  Chris'mus  'ceptin'  what  I  cuarn't 

rebeal, 
For  fokes  may  tell  all  what  dey  do  but  cuarn't  tell 

what  dey  feel. 
We  ain't  gwine  hab  no  mo'  sich  like,  dat  Chris'mus 

kin  not  be, 
Case  white  fokes'  sot  to  wurkin',  an'  de  niggers  is 

sot  free. 
Good-bye,  Miss  Kate,  Marse  Charley,  you  had  bes' 

keep  out'n  de  Sun. 
Rebeccy  is  dat  hoe-cake  an'  dat  bacon  almos'  done? 


WHEN  MARSE  RAN'  GOT  KILT. 


I  CUARED  HIM  HOME,  MARSE  CHARLEY.' 


WHEN  MARSE  RAN'  GOT  KILT. 


Jes'  set  down  dar,  Marse  Charley,  on  dat  ole  time  bar 

cloth  char, 
Hit's  mighty  saf  an'  easy,  'twas  a  present  from  yo' 

Mar. 
Bles'  heaben  for  her  goodness,  caze  she  was  mos' 

kine  to  me — 
Her  face  was  like  a  angel,  an'  her  eyes  was  like  de 

sea, 
So  blue  an'  deep.    You  could  not  fine  de  bottom  ob 

dem  eyes, 
Dey  look  like  some  'eflection  ob  de  Savior  from  de 

skies. 
Her   words   was   like    dat   manna    dat    de    anshunt 

Isrulites 
Foun'  on  de  mornin'  pastur,  what  de  angels  spread  o' 

nights. 

[79] 


8o          Uncle  Isaac:  or  Old  Days  in  the  South. 

O,  she  was  good  to  all  ob  us,  white  fokes  an'  niggers 

too, 
An'  nar  a  sole  libbed  on  dis  place  dat  didn't  iub  Miss 

Sue. 
"  Ole  Miss"  we  called  her  in  dem  days.     We  lubbed 

to  say  "  Ole  Miss," 
Hit  was  a  sign  ob  'faction,  jes'  de  same  thing  as  a 

kiss. 
I  members  well  dat  lone,  sad  day  when  she  took  sick 

an'  died, 
I  went  down  in  de  lowgroun'  pines  an'  cried,  an'  cried, 

an'  cried. 
De  sweetes'  life  had  lef  dis  Ian',  de  sweetes'  voice  was 

still; 
De  ole  plantation  changed  dat  day,  an'  neber,  neber 

will 
Be  like  hit  ust  er  be.    Set  down  Marse  Charley  on  de 

char. 
I  hope  you  is  a  righteous  chile  ob  yo'  sweet,  righteous 

Mar. 
You  want  me  to  tell  you  ob  de  time  when  young 

Marse  Ran'  got  kilt? 


When  Marse  Ran'   Got  Kilt.  Si 

'Twas  awful  hard  to  bar  Sar,  but  'twas  what  de  good 

Lord  wilt. 

Hit  'tis  a  sadsome  story,  but  I'll  tell  you  ef  I  can— 
My  memory  is  gwine  fas',  but  I  cuarn't  forgit  Marse 

Ran', 
Nor  how  he  libbed,  an'  lubbed,  an'  laffed,  an'  rid,  an' 

fit,  an'  died; 
Now  how  I  prayed  so  long  dat  day,  an'  when  I  quit 

I  cried. 

Hit  'twas  a  tur'ble  battle,  but  we  fit  hit  as  we  mout, 
I  b'lieb  hit  was  de  harcles'  fight  dat  in  de  war  we 

font. 
But  ef  I'm  gwine  to  tell  you  den  I  spec'  I'de  bes' 

begin 
Wid  when  we  yeard  about  de  war  fo'  he  an'  I  went 

in. 
In  ole  Amelia,  we  was  here,  when  news  dar  comes 

to  us 

About  de  war  arisin',  an'  I  think  'twas  May  de  fus' 
In  eighteen  hundud  sixty  one  an'  Nannie  Domino. 
Dat  was  de  year  de  lowgroun"s  had  de  dreadful 

oberflo'. 

6 


82          Uncle  Isaac:  or  Old  Days  in  the  South. 

De  corn  crap  hit  'twas  ruint,   an'   de  Appomattox 

riz 
Untwell  hit  cotched  de  cow  pen  an'  drowndid  our  bes' 

cow,  Liz. 
De  taters  warn't  no  good  dat  year,  an'  wheat  was 

mighty  bad- 
Hit  seemed  we  had  de  wustes'  luck  dat  we  had  eber 

had. 
I  don't  kno'  much  'bout  who  got  mad,  or  what  dey 

got  mad  for, 
But  bofe  sides  got  to  sassin',  an'  dat  sassin'  fetched 

de  wor. 
I'se  yeard  sence  den  dat  'ligion  is  mos'  gin'rally  de 

cause 

Ob  all  dis  rumpass  an'  a  killin'  what  we  call  de  wors, 
But  in  dis  case  'twas  diffrunt  an'  de  niggers  made  de 

muss 

Dat  brung  a  tribulation  an'  a  fightin'  on  to  us. 
De   Yankees  sade   dey's  suffrin',   an'   we'll  sot   de 

niggers  free. 
De  Cornfed  sade,  you  shet  up,  an'  jes'  let  our  niggers 

be. 


When   Marse   Ran'    Got   Kilt.  83 

De   niggers   warn't  complainin'   an'   dey  lubbed   de 

cabin  life, 
hi  clat  ole  time  ob  comfort  for  de  man  an'  chile  an 

wife. 
De  vict'als  was  abundant,  an'  our  close  was  spic  an' 

span, 
An'   den  we  libbed  jes'  like  we  would  in  dis  bles' 

Suddern  Lan'. 

Wid  watermillions  ripe  an'  sweet  down  on  de  ice 
house  flo', 
An'  possums  in  cle  simmon  trees,  what  else  did  we 

want  mo'? 
De  niggers  warn't  complainin',  an'  dey  neber  sade  a 

word 

About  a  bein'  unhappy  Sar,  as  eber  I  is  yeard. 
De  gempman  was  de  marster,  but  de  gempman  was 

our  frien', 
An'  we  didn't  want  dat  frien'ship  to  bust  up  Sar,  an' 

to  en'. 
But  startin'  to  Virginny,  whar  we  sade  dey  should  not 

come 
To  gib  us  any  trouble  in  our  ole  Virginny  home, 


84          Uncle  Isaac:  or  Old  Days  in  the  South. 

We  got  to  fight  de  battles  ob  de  Souf  Cornfidrit  wars, 
An'  dat's  'bout  all  I  knows  Sar,  in  de  matter  ob  hits 

cause. 
But  you  ought'r  seen  our  fokes  den  when  dey  foun' 

de  news  was  true 
Dat  'vasion  was  a  comin'  Sar.     De  air  was  black  an' 

blue. 
I  neber  yeard  sich  langwidge  from  ole  marster  fo' 

dat  day; 
He  cuarried  on  in  what  seemed  like  a  mos'  unchristian 

way. 

I  b'lieb  'cept  for  dat  'ligion  dat  hilt  holt  on  mos'  on 

us 

He  would  a  broke  completely  an'  los'  hesef  an'  cuss. 
Ezactly  like  de  men  de  ladies  too  got  mad  you  kno', 
An'  sade  so  much  a  quar'lin'  dat  you  almos'  thought 

dey  swo'. 
De  chilluns  eben  dey  got  mad  an'  made  deir  leetle 

fuss — 
You  scace  could  fine  a  single  sole  dat  wasn't  fit  to 

cuss. 


When    Marsc   Ran'    Got   Kilt.  85 

De  gempmen  jined  de  comp'nies,  an'  mos'  eb'ry  single 

man 

In  ole  Amelia  county  an'  her  sister  Powhatan 
Was  jiniir  an'  a  gwine,  I  clar,  untw.ell  when  dey  was 

clone, 

Ob  all  de  men  in  dese  here  parts  dey  hardly  lef  a  one 
To  take  care  ob  cle  place,  or  ten'  a  crap,  or  blow  a 

horn. 

Dey  was  mo'  scacer  den  a  measly  nubbin'  in  our  corn. 
Yo'  Pa  he  jined  cle  Richmon'  Blues,  an'  den  my  young 

Marse  Ran', 
He  jined   cle  hoss-back  troop   dey  raised  across  in 

Powhatan. 
Deir  captin  was  Marse  Charley  Ole — a  good  one  to 

be  sho', 
An'  deir  leftenant  was,  you  kno',  Mis'  Hobson'  young 

son  Joe. 
De  sargent  was  Marse  Harty,  Mister  Willyum  Hair'- 

son's  son. 
An'    Marse   Joe    Gibbs,    our   mess's    cook,    he    was 

anodder  one. 


86          Uncle  Isaac:  or  Old  Days  in  the  South. 

Den  dar  was  young-  Marse  Lewis  Harvie,  an'  Marse 

Jimmie  Werf— 

As  fine  a  lot  ob  cabilmen  as  rid  upon  clis  erf. 
In  dis  here  worl'  no  braver  men  no  wars  ain't  neber 

see, 
An'  all  de  men  ob  dat  ole  troop  was  brave  as  dey 

could  be ! 
Dey  lubbed  to  git  to  fightin'  as  mos'  fokes  do  lub  to 

eat, 

An'  dey  didn't  hab  no  notion  'bout  a  time  for  a  re 
treat. 
When  dat  ole  troop  got  started  dey  was  gwine  some- 

whar  dat  day, 
An'  'twarn't  no  use  for  Yankees  to  git  crosswise  in  de 

way, 
For  dey  was  gwine  I  tell  you,  gwine  a  bubblin,  to  dat 

spot 

Like  gravy  in  a  skillit  dat  ole  Nat  had  made  red  hot. 
Dar  warn't  no  way  to  hender  dat  ole  resky  Pow'tan 

troop; 
You  ought'r  seen  'em  chargin',  an'  you  ought'r  yeard 

'em  whoop. 


When    Marse   Ran'    Got   Kilt.  87 

'Twas  like  a  great  big  pac'  ob  houn's  a  openin'  wid 

deir  cry 
Behin'  a  fox  a  runnin',  but  who  knowed  he  had  to 

die. 

Marse  Ran'  he  rid  de  sorrel  colt,  an'  I,  I  rid  ole  Nade, 
An'  way  we  v/ent  one  day  to  whar  de  war  would  be 

dey  sade. 
But  fus'  we  marched  to  Richmon'  town,  an'  dat  was 

only  fun, 
Becaze,  you  kno',  de  time  for  fightin'  hadn't  as  yit 

begun. 
But  hit  was  comin'  slo'ly,  an'  dat  sojer  play  didn't 

las' 
For  mo'n  a  week  or  month  befo'  de  mis'ry  come  to 

pas'. 
In  Richmon'  hit  was  nelegent.     De  vict'als  was  de 

bes', 

An'  not  a  thing  had  we  to  do  but  jes'  to  eat  an'  res', 
Dey  mounted  guard  a  mornin',  an'  had  eb'nin'  dress 

perade, 
All    dressed    up   in    deir   finery   an'   lots   ob   golden 

braid. 


88          Uncle  Isaac:  or  Old  Days  in  the  South. 

De  ladies  come  mos'  all  de  time  to  see  de  sojer  boys, 
An'  life  in  camp  was  jes'  a  great  big  passel  full  ob 

joys. 
So  dey  was  geth'rin  an'  geth'rin'  untwell  dar  come  a 

day 
When  buglers  blowed  de  bugles  an'  we  had  to  march 

away. 
De  ban's  dey  sot  to  playin',  an'  de  drums  begun  to 

beat, 

De  cannons  rumbled  loudly  'long  on  wide,   rock- 
paved  Broad  street, 

De  banners  was  a  flyin',  an'  de  sojers  look  so  glad, 
Dat  we  begun  to  feel  dat  war  was  what  we  wished  we 

had. 
De  sight  we  made  was  splendid,  an'  de  hosses  mos' 

kep'  step, 
An'  ladies  waved  deir  kerchiefs,  an'  smiled,  an'  laffed, 

an'  wep'. 
An'  some  was  gwine  to  glory,   Sar,   an'  some  was 

gwine  to  die, 
An'  soon  dem  praisin',  smilin'  ladies  dar  was  gwine 

to  cry. 


When   Marse   Ran3    Got   Kilt.  89 

Our  gin'ral  was  de  gin'ral  dat  mos'  eb'rybody  love. 
He  was  so  han'some  dat  he  mout  a  drapped  down 

from  above,. 

A  angel  gone  to  sojerin'  upon  dis  sorry  worl', 
But  dat  he  lubbed  to  be  a  singin',  chirpy  as  a  girl. 
He'd  sing  away  a  mornin',  an'  he'd  sing  de  same  at 

night, 
Nare  shadder  crossed  his  countenance,  dat  face  was 

always  bright. 
You'se  yeard  ob  him  Marse  Charley,  Gin'ral  Stuart 

was  de  man, 

De  fines'  cal'vry  gin'ral  dat  we  had  in  all  de  Ian'. 
I  hear  him  now  a  singin'  'bout  de  ole  hoss  dat  was 


A  comin'  out  a  wildernes'  an'  warn't  gwine  long  to 

stay. 
I  almos'   see  dem  golden  spurs  he  wore  upon  his 

boots, 
An'  graceful  wabin'  ob  his  han'  tow'ds  ole  Sweeney 

Toots, 
His  drab,  saft  hat  an'  feadder  cotched  up  wid  a  star 

ob  gole  — 


90          Uncle  Isaac:  or  Old  Days  in  the  South. 

Ole  Marster  when  He  made  dat  gin'ral  sho'ly  broke 

de  mole. 
But  I  cuarn't  tell  you  all  about  dem  fo'  long  years  ob 

fight, 
Twould  take  too  long,  Marse  Charley,  an'  hit  'tain't 

fur  now  fo'  night. 

He  kep'  us  stiddy  fightin',  an'  he  rarly  let  us  res', 
Untwell  we  all  got  ragged  an'  our  food  warn't  none 

de  bes'. 
Our  bacon  got  so  rancid  an'  de  brade  dat  full  ob 

worms 
Hit  sets  my  hade  a  shiverin'   an'   gibs  me  yit  de 

squirms 
In  my  tuff  stomick  when  I  thinks  ob  what  dem  days 

we  eat. 
Dat  hard  tac'  would  a  crawled  right  off  ef  eber  hit  got 

wet. 
How  in  dis  worl'  dey  made  so  hard  dat  measly  ole 

hard  tac' 
I  kin  not  compehen'.     Hit  would  not  saften,  bust, 


When   Marsc   Ran'    Got   Kilt.  91 

Yas  Sar,   hit  was  as  hard,   I   clar,   as  dat  dar  iron 

plow- 
To  sabe  my  life,  Marse  Charley,  I  b'lieb  I  couldn't 

eat  hit  now. 
We  got  dat  low  an'  on'ry  dat  we  retched  de  lowes' 

pitch, 
When  eb'ry  gempman  ob  us  all  had  gone  an'  got 

de  itch. 
An'  do'  we  washed  all  dat  we  could,  an'  tried  to  keep 

us  clean 
Dem  varmin  would  come  on  us  dat's  de  meanes'  ob 

de  mean. 
I  ought'n  to  tell  you  ob  dese  things  dey  is  so  mighty 

low, 
But  dey  wras  in  de  war  Sar,  an'  I'se  boun'  to  talk  jesr 

so. 
But  nary  word  ob  grumblin'  did  he  hear  dem  brave 

boys  say, 
Dey  fit  an'  bled,  dey  bur'd  deir  dade,  an'  rid  wid  him 

away 
To  fight  agin.     Dem   men  was  made  ob  ole  time 

Suddern  stuff, 


92          Uncle  Isaac:  or  Old  Da\s  in  the  South. 

Which  neber  knowed  an'  neber  tole  'bout  when  dey 

had  enuff. 

But  arter  while  Marse  Ran'  he  riz  to  be  a  captin  an' 
Dey  took  him  out  ob  his  own  troop  dat  come  from 

Powhatan, 
An'  him  an'  me  dey  sont  to  sarve  on  Gin'ral  Pickett's 

staff, 
An'  do'  I  was  so  proud  I  laffed  hit  'twarn't  no  time  to 

laff. 
Dat  'motion  kilt  my  marster,  for  ef  in  de  troop  he'd 

staid, 
He  wouldn't  a  got  in  dat  big  fight  an'  on  de  fiel'  lay 

dade. 
He  went  to  Gin'ral  Pickett  for  de  wuss  fight  ob  de 

war; 
'Twas  mighty  sad,  'twas  tur'bul,  Sar.    What  did  he  go 

dar  for? 
But  dar  he  went,  an'  dar  he  fit,  an'  dar  a  brave  man 

died, 
An'  dar  a  nigger's  heart  got  broke,  an'  dar  ole  Isaac 

cried, 


When   Marsc   Ran'    Got    Kilt.  93 

Dey  drawed  dem  up  one  mornin',  'twas  de  third  day 

ob  July, 
In  line  ob  battle  dat  was  formed  ob  men  dat  had  to 

die. 
I  clum  a  fence  an'  watched  dem  form  beneaf  de  slopin' 

hill, 
Whar  in  de  brilin'  Sun  dey  stood  for  seb'rul  hours 

untwill 
I  got  so  narvous  dat  I  ses,  dar's  sumpthin'   sho'ly 

wrong, 
Dey  stays  down  dar  too  quietly  an'  too  onnat'rul 

long. 

Yes  Sar,  I  got  so  jerky  dat  'twas  like  I  had  a  chill, 
A  watchin'  dem  brave  sojers  at  de  bottom  ob  de  hill. 
Den  jes'  'bout  when  'twas  dinner  time,  de  Sun  sade 

hit  was  one 

O'clock,  a  settin'  on  de  fence  I  yeard  a  single  gun. 
An'  den  good  Lord-a-marcy !  dar  come  bustin'  out 

de  noise 
Ob  seb'rul  hund'ud  cannons  dar  a  shootin'  at  dem 

bovs. 


94          Uncle  Isaac:  or  Old  Days  in  the  South. 

Hit  soun'  like  jedgment  day  had  come  an'  eb'ry  one 

ob  us 
Was   summoned    up   to   jedgment    in    dat    big,    tre- 

menjous  fuss. 
Hit  skeered  me  into  sich  a  trimble  dat   I   los'   my 

sense, 
An'  jumped  so  high  up  from  de  rail  I  fell  off  ob  de 

fence. 
De  yearth  hit  shook  an'  shivered,  an'  de  smoke  be- 

thicked  de  ar' 
A  siffocatin'  'twell  I  thunk  we  all  would  die  right 

thar. 
For  I  couldn't  b'lieb  'twas  people  dat  was  makin'  sich 

a  stir 
Ob  ilemints  an'  turmile,  but  de  Lord  had  made  hit 

'cur. 
Den  suddently  de  guns  dey  heshed  an'  eb'rything  was 

still, 

An'  muskits  'gin  to  rattle  at  de  bottom  ob  de  hill. 
I  knowed  dat  sumpthin'  awful  was  a  gwine  to  happen 

den, 


When   Marse   Ran'    Got   Kilt.  95 

But  pray  I  couldn't  to  sabe  my  life,  I  jes'  could  say 

"Amen." 
I  was  so  skeered  my  sense  war  gone,   my  tongue 

couldn't  make  no  soun', 
Jes'    mumblin'   an'   a  trimblin'    dar   I  .laid   upon   de 

groun'. 
But  in  dat  word,  young  Marster,  dar  was  all  a  man 

could  pray, 
A  skeered  sole  say'n  in  breffless  prar  all  dat  hit  had  to 

say. 
An'  den  I  yeard  de  order,  "  Forw'd,"  an'  all  along  de 

line 
I  seed  de  motion  ob  de  men,  an'  knowed  whar  dey 

was  gwine. 
Right  up  dat  hill  dey  pinted  to  whar  all  dem  guns  was 

sot, 
Wid  forty  thousan'  Yankees  waitin'  for  dem  in  dat 

spot. 
Dey  moved  as  stiddy  an'  as  true  as  ef  'twas  dress 

perade, 
Deir  shoulders  techin'  shoulders,   an'  de  gin'rul  at 

deir  hade. 


96          Uncle  Isaac:  or  Old  Days  in  the  South. 

But  praise  don't  'mount  to  nuffin'  air  no  mo'  1  cuars 

to  say, 
'Cept  dat  straight  line  ob  battle  was  deposed  ob  "  men 

in  grey/' 
Dat's  all  you  hab  to  say  Sar,  for  de  res'  is  known  to 

.     all. 
Dey  moved  like  corn  a  wabin'  an'  deir  line  was  like 

a  wall. 
An'  so  dey  went  haf  up  de  hill,  when  forw'd  I  seed 

'em  sarge, 
An'  kno'ed  de  gin'ral  had  gib  order  for  de  men  to 

charge. 
Dar  bruk  loose  on  de  hillside  den  de  loudes'  "  rebel 

yell," 

An'  I  mos'  hear  de  gin'ral  say,  "  Now  boys  jes'  gib 

'em  hell  "- 
De  saints  forgib  me  for  dat  word,  I  had  done  sho' 

forgit 

Dat  I  was  now  a  Christian  man,  an'  not  a  rebel  yit. 
Away  dey  went  right  up  de  hill  into  dat  place  ob 

deff, 
An'  I  got  so  ixcited  dat  I  actshul  hilt  my  breff. 


When   Marse   Ran'    Got   Kilt.  97 

A  cheerin'  an'  a  yellin'  an'  a  rushin'  tow'd  cle  top, 
Dat  ole  Division  hurried  in  a  way  no  fokes  could 

stop. 
An'  den  de  Yankee  cannons  turned  a  loose  deir  iron 

storm, 
An'  mowed  dem  down  in  ranks  an'  files,  but  quick 

agin  dey'd  form. 
Dey  needn't  a  tried  to  stop  'em  for  dey  was  de  "  men 

ob  grey," 
Who'de  ruther  fight  den  eat,  I  b'lieb,  on  any  sort  er 

day. 
Dey  flung  deir  nale  kaigs  an'  canbusters  murd'rin'' 

down  de  slope 

Untwell  for  not  a  single  man  I  had  de  slightes'  hope, 
De  ar  was  full  ob  bustin'  shells,  de  grape  was  whistlin' 

loud, 

An'  mos'  a  million  bullits  was  a  hitin'  in  dat  crowd. 
Hit  was  like  hell  had  been  turned  loose — Dar  is  dat 

word  agin, 
But  I  don't  mean  no  harm  an'  so  hit  cuarn't  be  much 

er  sin. 

7 


98          Uncle  Isaac:  or  Old  Days  in  the  South. 

An'  'twas  like  hell  all  turned  a  loose  in  answer  to  a 

cuss, 
I  clar  to  heab'n,  Marse  Charley,  nuffin'  else  could  hab 

been  wuss. 
Dey  cheered  an'  fell,  dey  fell  an'  cheered,  an'  o'  de 

dade  dey  run, 
An'  paid  nare  bit  ob  'tention  to  dem  shot  or  hill  or 

gun. 
I  seed  de  off'cers  fallin',  but  Marse  Ran'  I  seed  kep' 

on, 
'Twill  'twixt  de  smokes  I  looked  agin'  an'  Lordy,  he 

was  gone. 
My  heart  sunk  in  my  stomick,  an'  my  breff  come 

quick  an*  fas', 
Den  in  a  minnit  mo'  I  yelled  an'  jumped  up  off  de 

grass. 
Fde   plum   forgit   de   bullits   an'   de   canbusters   an' 

shell, 
De  noise  an'  fight,  de  skeer  an'  me,  an'  eb'rything  as 

well, 
But  up  de  hill  1  runned  to  whar  I  thunk  I  seed  him 

fall, 


When   Marse   Ran'    Got   Kilt.  99 

An'  neber  cuared  a  single  bit  for  anything  at  all. 
A  bullit  hit  me  in  de  arm,  but  not  one  word  I  sade, 
For  I  was  gwine  to  git  Marse  Ran'  onles'  dey  shot 

me  dade. 

An'  thar  he  was  lyin'  still  right  flat  upon  his  face, 
His   blood   a   red'nin'    eb'rything   about   dat   sacred 

place. 
I  turned  him  gintly  ober,  but  so  soon's  I  cotched  his 

eye 
I  knowed  his  time  was  sartin  come  an'  he  was  boun' 

to  die. 
"  O  Lord/'  I  hollored,  "  O  Marse  Ran',  please  look 

at  me  onct  mo' !  " 
An'    his    dear    eyes    looked    in    my    eyes He 

whispered,  but  so  low 
Dat  I,  to  sabe  me,  couldn't  make  out  what  he  was 

try'n'  to  speak, 
An'  neber  think  he'd  talk  agin  he  'pearecl  so  mighty 

weak. 
But  den  I  seed  him  try  agin,  an'  dis  time  plain  I 

yeard, 


ioo        Uncle  Isaac:  or  Old  Days  in  the  South. 

Do'  low  he  spoke,  in  whisper  low,  an'  slo'ly  word  by 
word. 

"  Isaac — Good-bye — Isaac — tell — Mar — I  feel- 
Isaac — Good-bye, 

Tell — Isaac  all — at  home — dat  I  was — not  afeered — 
to  die; 

Tell — tell  dem  I — died  for  dem,  an' — an'  for — my 
country's  good !  " 

I  tole  him,  an'  I  scace  could  speak,  dat  I  mos'  sho'ly 
would. 

An'   den   he   sade,   "  for  honor,   tell — tell — ,   Isaac, 
hole  my  hade," 

An'  den  de  blood  bulged  out  his  bres',  an'  den  Marse 
Ran'  was  dade. 

"  Somebody's  darlin'  "  lay  dat  day  upon  de  grey  hill 
side, 

"  Somebody's  darlin'  "  fit  dat  day,  an  fit  untwell  he 
died, 

"  Somebody's  darlin'  "  lef  dat  day  a  pain  for  all  ob 
us, 

An'  many  a  heart  was  hurt  dat  day,  an'  one  sweet 
heart  did  bus'. 


When   Marse  Ran'    Got  Kilt.  101 

Please  'scuse  my  cryin'   Marster,  I  cuarn't  hep'  de 

wish  to  cry, 

I  rickolix  so  well  clat  day  I  watched  my  darlin'  die. 
I  picked  him  up  an'  toted  him  a  down  dat  bloody 

hill, 

An'  in  my  arms  he  lay  so  white  an'  beautiful  an'  still. 
His  smile  was  like  a  angel's,  an'  I  knowed  his  fight 

was  won — 
A  sojer's  sole  done  furloughed  'caze  his  sojer  work 

was  done. 
I  cuarred  him  home,  Marse  Charley,  an'  right  yonder 

now  he  sleeps, 
Beneaf  de  grass  an'  vi'lets  whar  dat  weepin'  wilier 

weeps. 
To  me  his  grave  is  holy,  an'  I'se  kep'  hit  all  dese 

years 
Sweet  wid  de  grass  an'  flowers,  an'  mos'  watered  hit 

wicl  tears. 
But  ob  de  fight  I  seed  no  mo',  dey  tell  me  dat  de 

boys 
To  Cimitiry  Ridge  went  up  through  all  dat  deff  an' 

noise. 


IO2        Uncle  Isaac:  or  Old  Days  in  the  Soutli. 

I    neber   boddered    'bout    my   arm,    aldo'    hit    hurt, 

untwell 

I  got  him  safely  home  agin,  an'  den  hit  soon  got  well. 
Hit's  techy  now  for  rheumatiz,  an'  brings  me  back 

de  day 
In  sad  remimbrance  when  Marse  Ran'  in  battle  passed 

away. 
1'se  been  here  eber  sence,  Sar,  eber  sence  dat  time  he 

died, 
An'  'twell  I  jine  Marse  Randuff  thar,  'tis  here  I  want 

to  bide. 
An'  when  my  time  is  come,  as  'twill,  an'  I've  took 

sick  an'  died, 
Marse  Charley  put  me  'neaf  de  tree  by  my  young 

Marster's  side. 
You  mus'  be  gwine?    Good  eb'nin'  Sar,  I  hopes  you'll 

come  agin, 
Hit  does  me  good  to  tell  you  'bout  de  times  our 

fokes  libbed  in. 
Please  'scuse  my  tears.    Good-bye,  Good-bye !  Gord's 

doin's  is  all  right. 

Nummine  Rebeccy,  thanky,  I  ain't  hongry  none  to 
night  ! 


DE  SUNDAYS  AN'  DE  'LIGION  DAT  IS 
GONE. 


"BUT  JES'  SET  DOWN  AND  TALK. 


DE  SUNDAYS  AN'  DE  'LIGION  DAT  IS 
GONE. 


Good  Mornin'  Sar,  Good  Mornin'  M'am!    I'm  raly 

glad  you  come, 
An'  tell  me  'bout  all  ob  yo'  fokes,  how  is  dey  all  at 

home? 
Marse  Charley,  how  is  you  to-day,  I  hope  you'se  well 

Miss  Kate. 
I'm  mighty  glad  to  see  you  caze  hit's  lonesome  here 

ob  late. 
Rebeccy  went  a  week  ago  down  to  Marse  Jeemses 

place, 

An'  ob  a  pa'r  ob  frien'ly  eyes  I  kinder  wants  a  tas'e. 
She's  gwine  come  home  to-morrer,  an'  I  reck'n  'twill 

be  sometime 
Befo'  she  gits  plum  rested  from  dat  backward  uphill 

clime. 

[107] 


io8        Uncle  Isaac:  or  Old  Days  in  the  South. 

She's  mos'  too  ole  an'  ailin'   to  be  trampin'  to   de 

Oaks, 
An'  dat  big  hill  'twixt  here  an'  dar  is  hefty  for  ole 

fokes. 
Somehow  or  nother  we  cuarn't  larn  what  mus'  be 

plain  to  you, 
Dat  we  ole  fokes  cuarn't  pos'bul  do  what  onct  we 

ust  er  do. 
Wid  grey  har'd  age  de  knee  jints  gits  too  stiff  so  far 

to  walk; 
An'  I  ain't  fit'n  for  nuffin  now  but  to  set  down  an' 

talk. 

Onct  'pon  a  time  I  ust  er  plow  'long  any  sort  er  man, 
An'  better  den  young  Isaac  den  yo'  Par  didn't  hab 

nare  han'. 

In  dat  ole  wheatnel'  yonder  I  is  made  de  cradle  sing, 
An'   in   dem  ole  corn   shuckin'   days   I   neber  do   a 

thing 
But  jes'  walk  way  wid  all  de  fokes.     I  cuarn't  hep' 

now  but  laff 
When  I  remimber  how  de  res'  couldn't  do  much  mo' 

den  ha'f 


De  Sundays  an'  De  'Ligion  Dat  is  Gone.        109 

I  did,  no  matter  how  cley  wurked.     I  spec'  hit  made 

me  proud. 

But  you  cuarn't  hep'  dat  pride  M'am,  when  you  con 
stant  leads  de  crowd. 

Hit  'tis  dat  ilemint  ob  sin  dat  in  us  fines  a  place, 
An'  lets  us  look  a  smilin'  at  de  lef  ones  in  de  race, 
A  kinder  nat'rul  selfishnes'  dat  in  us  all  is  sot, 
An'  don't  care  'bout  no  odders,  'cept  to  git  what  dey 

is  got. 
But  now  I  cuarn't  wurk  hard  M'am,  an'  de  res'  ob 

time  down  here 
I'm  satisfied  to  plow  behin'  dat  ole  red,  broke  horn 

steer. 
We  bofe  goes  slo'  an'  poky,  but  we  makes  a  leetle 

crap, 
Enuff  for  one  po'  'oman  an'  for  one  ole  worn  out 

chap. 
She's  gwine  come  home  to-morrer  Sar,  an'  jes'as  sho' 

as  sin 
Hits  gwine  to  be  a  good  long  time  befo'  she  goes 

agin. 


no        Uncle  Isaac:  or  Old  Days  in  the  South. 

She'll  be  so  tired  an'  groanin'  when  she  sets  down  in 

dat  char 
Hit's  gwine  take  heap  er  suasion  for  to  start  her  back 

down  thar. 
I  knows  her  well,  young  Mistis,  an'  she  ain't  so  nimble 

now 
As  when  she  cleaned  up  in  de  house  while  I  was  hin' 

de  plow. 
She  ain't  gwine  back  torectly,  an'  de  Spring  will  hab 

set  in 

Befo'  she  gits  de  notion,  an'  ole  Isaac's  lef  agin. 
Tobacker,  Sar!     I'm  much  obleedged,  hit's  what  I 

wished  I  had. 
Mine's  done  got  mighty  funky,  an'  hit's  tas'e  is  almos' 

bad. 
How  cum  dey  puts  dese  leetle  brass  things  all  along 

de  plugs? 
To  tell  you  ef  'twas  made  ob  long  leaf  or  'twas  made 

ob  lugs? 
De  bran'  you  say?    An'  dat's  de  name?     An'  dis  is 

"Grabely  Pres'?" 


De  Sundays  an'  De  'Ligion  Dat  is  Gone.        1 1 1 

In  dem  good  days  dat  now  is  gone  O'noco  was  de 

bes'. 
I'm  gwine  pull  off  dis  bran  right  now,  case  only  tother 

day 
When  young  Marse  Jimmie  Bannister  come  ridin' 

'long  dis  way, 
He  gimme  one  nice  bit  ob  piece  like  dis  fixed  up  wid 

brass, 

An'  bit'n  a  chor  I  bruk  a  touf,  de  nex'  one  to  my  las'. 
Hit  was  a  shame  to  los'  dat  touf,  Yes  M'am,  an'  now  I 

choose 
To  teck  no  resks,  for  sho's  you  born,  I'se  got  no  mo' 

to  lose. 
You  wants  me  tell  you  sumpthin'  mo'  about  de  life 

dat's  gone, 
I  knows  hit  all  Marse  Charley  from  long  fo'  you  bofe 

was  born. 
You  lubs  to  hear  me  tell  about  de  good  days  dat  is 

pas'? 
Dey  was  good  too  Miss  Katie,  an'  too  good  for  dem 

to  las'. 


ii2        Uncle  Isaac:  or  Old  Days  in  the  South. 

An'  ef  you  lubs  to  hear  my  tales,  I  lubs  to  tell  clem 

too, 

An'  nar  a  sole  in  all  de  worl'  I'd  ruther  tell  den  you. 
Tse  tole  you  'bout  our  Chris'mus  time  an'  when  (ley 

kilt  Marse  Ran', 
Arter  he  lef  dat  horseback  troop  he  jined  in  Powha- 

tan. 
What  does  you  want  me  talk  'bout  now?    I  members 

eb'rything 
From  way  de  ole  houn's  ust  er  bark  to  how  de  mock 

bird  sing. 
Deres  nuffin  ob  dat  ole  time  life  ain't  cotched  hard 

in  dis  brain, 

An'  when  I  fotch  it  back  I  gits  a  pledjur  outen  pain. 
For  howsomeber  when  I  thinks  about  clem  good  ole 

days 
My  feelin's  gits  a  crosswise  an'  dey  tech  me  in  two 

ways. 
'Tis  sad  to  kno'  dat  dey  is  gone  an'  cuarn't  come  back 

no  mo', 
But  den  agin  hit  makes  me  glad  to  call  dem  back  so 

sho'. 


De  Sundays  an'  De  'Ligion  Dat  is  Gone.        113 

An'  when  I  talks  about  dem  Sar,  I  libs  in  dem  agin, 
Jes'  like  I'd  been  an'  gone  away,  come  home,  an' 

walked  right  in. 
Tis  but  a  sweet  word  song,  M'am,  sot  unto  a  sadsome 

tune, 
A  kinder  late  October  day  sont  back  somewhar  in 

June. 
I  b'lieb  I'll  tell  you  'bout  de  'ligion  dat  we  had  dem 

days, 
When  we  was  doin'  eb'rything  in  dem  ole  fashion 

ways, 
An'  how  we  went  to  our  ole  Chu'ch  whar  onct  we 

singed  an'  prayed, 
An'  'tracted  meetin'  at  de  Chu'ch  when  all  day  long 

we  stade. 
We   was    Episcumpalyons,    'mong   mos'    high    tone 

fokes  was  we, 

An'  had  de  fines'  sarvice  dar  as  eber  dar  could  be. 
Dar  was  some  odder  kind  er  'ligions  scattered  roun' 

about, 
But  dey  didn't  warship  much  like  us,  an'  mos'ly  lub 

to  shout. 

8 


114        Uncle  Isaac:  or  Old  Days  in  the  South. 

We  neber  'lowed  no  shoutin',  an'  cle  fokes  jes'  say 

"  Amen  " 
Wheneber  in  de  prars  dar  come  what  seemed  a  leetle 

en'. 
Sometimes  we  jawed  back  standin'  what  de  good  ole 

Prar  Book  sade, 

A  speakin'  to  de  preacher  like  de  body  to  de  hade. 
We  neber  had  no  jumblin'  caze  we  all  had  larnt  to 

tell 
What  our  ole  preacher  wanted  M'am,  an'  up  we  riz 

an'  fell. 
A  norgan  hysted  up  de  tune  an'  how  de  time  was 

wrote, 
So   eb'rybody   in   de   choir   could   strike   de   samest 

note. 

An'  sich  a  singin'  we  did  hab,  I  clar,  hit  was  enerf 
To  make  you  b'lieb  de  angels  had  come  down  from 

heab'n  to  erf 

A  singin'  ob  de  music  dey  was  ust  to  in  de  skies, 
An'  'twas  dat  sweet  hit  made  you  cry  onles'  you  shet 

yo'  eyes. 


De  Sundays  an'  De  'Ligion  Dat  is  Gone.        115 

De  balunce  ob  cle  Chu'ches  was  as  Christian  fokes, 

'tis  true, 
But  (ley  didn't  like  to  warship  much  like  we  all  ust  er 

do. 
Dey  neber  had  no  Book  ob  Prar  an  didn't  stan'  to 

sing, 
An'  seemed  to  hab  a  notion  for  a  change  in  eb'ry- 

thing. 
But  den  dey  was  good  people  an'  dey  prayed  bofe 

loud  an'  long, 
Do'  dey  didn't  hab  no  norgan  for  to  hyst  deir  'ligious 

song. 
You  ought  to  yeard  us  singin',  O,  dem  himes  was 

good  to  hear, 
When  dat  sweet  norgan  tried  to  fotch  de  bery  heabens 

near. 
*k  When  I  kin  read  my  title  clar  to  mansions  in  de 

skies, 
I'll  bid  farwell  to  eb'ry  fear  an'  wipe  my  weepin' 

eyes," 
Dat  was  one  hime  in  our  Chu'ch  our  lubly  choir 

would  sing, 


n6        Uncle  Isaac:  or  Old  Days  in  the  South. 

Untwell  hit  souir  jes'  like  cleir  tune  was  music  on  de 

wing 

A  risin'  an'  a  risin'  up  unto  de  good  Lord's  throne, 
An'  healin'  eb'ry  sinner  an'  a  heshin'  eb'ry  groan. 
Mos'  gin'rally  'twas  Baptis'  here  arfter  you  lef  us 

out, 

An'  dey  all  was  de  people  dat  I  sade  did  lub  to  shout. 
Dey  warn't  so  much  peculiar,  Sar,  cept'n  when  dey 

took  fokes  in, 
An'  den  dey  used  mo'  water  for  de  washin'  out  ob 

sin. 
We'd  drap  a  drap  er  water  for  de  sin  dat  was  mos' 

rank, 
But  dey  picked  up  de  seekin'  man  an'  soused  him  in 

a  tank. 
One  day  down  in  de  ribber  dar  close  by  de  injine's 

pump 
De  preacher  hit  one  nigger's  hade  aginst  a  hidden 

stump, 

Which  bruk  up  one  baptisin',  for  de  people  got  afrade, 
An'  de  ole  preacher  didn't  dar  no  futher  out  to  wade. 


DC  Sundays  an'  De  'Ligion  Dat  is  Gone.        117 

But  nare  a  bit  ob  feelin'  come  betwixt  dem  fokes  an' 

us, 
Two  Sundays  in  de  month  dey  had,  an'  we  de  third 

an'  fits'. 
Deir  Chu'ch  was  named  de  "  Brick  Chu'ch,"  an'  down 

yonder  hit  Stan's  still, 
But  our'n  was  sot  cle  odder  way,  an'  hit  was  called 

"  Grub  Hill." 
Dey  had  a  heap  er  preachers,  but  we  neber  had  but 

one, 
An'  a  mo'  holier  man  den  he  didn't  walk  beneaf  God's 

Sun. 
An'    so    I    disremimber    now    mos'    all    de    Baptis' 

names, 

Dey  was  a  stayin'  so  onriglar;  do  dey  strongly  claims 
Dat   changes  was  de  bestis'   for  de   congregation's 

good, 
While  we  all  tried  to  keep  our  preacher  all  de  time  we 

could. 
His  body  warn't  so  much  to  see,   you'd  say  'twas 

tol'bul  thin, 
But  his  big  soul  was  pow'ful  in  hit's  battles  for  our  sin. 


n8        Uncle  Isaac:  or  Old  Days  in  the  South. 

An'  in  dat  hade  ob  his'n,  Sar,  deir  was  a  bilin  brain 
As  full  ob  'ligious  notions  as  a  cloud's  got  draps  ob 

rain. 
You's  yeard  yo'  Ma  speak  of  him,  M'am,  you  mus' 

hab,  I  declar, 
For  she  lubbed  him  as  all  us  did,  de  people  near  an' 

far. 

His  name  was  Mister  Burkley  an'  as  nateral  was  he 
In  Grub  Hill's  ole  time  pulpit  as  a  ship  upon  de  sea. 
His  sole  was  full  ob  goodness  an'  his  life  ob  sacrifice; 
But  he  don't  preach  no  mo'  here  now,  he's  gone  to 

Paradise. 
One  Sunday  'twas  de  ole  Brick  Chu'ch,  an'  one  hit 

'twas  Grub  Hill, 

As  riglar  as  a  sojer  goes  upon  his  riglar  drill. 
De  Grub  Hill  Chu'ch  was  full  ten  mile,  de  Brick  hit 

warn't  but   seb'n, 
But  who  cuarn't  go  dat  fur  to  Chu'ch  ain't  gwine 

much  fur  tow'd  heab'n. 
We  neber  mine  dem  miles  we  went  caze  we  all  lubbed 

to  go, 
An'  Sunday  was  de  hapyest  day  ob  all  we  had  I  kno'. 


DC  Sundays  an'  De  'Ligion  Dat  is  Gone.        119 

To  do  no  wurk  dat  holy  day  our  fambly  neber  'lows. 
'Cept  but  to  feed  de  bosses  an'  de  hogs,  an'  milk  de 

cows. 
De  Lord  is  tole  us  dat  good  law  right  in  de  Holy 

Book, 
An'  de  cuarn't  'low  no  liberties  wid  dat  law  to  be 

took. 
For  what  de  Lord  writ  wid  His  finger  on  de  slab  ob 

stone 
Is  'portant  an'  you's  got  to  mine,  let  what  hit  stops 

alone. 
But  dat  cuarn't  be  no  'sturbance  for  a  raly  Christian 

sole, 
He's  boun'  to  do  what  Gord's  Word  ses,  no  matter 

what  he's  tole. 
Caze  lubbin'  Gord  he  lubs  His  Word,  an'  lubs  to  do 

His  tas', 

As  ef  hit  'twas  a  pledjur  he  was  glad  had  come  to  pas'. 
Soon  arter  brekfas'  when  de  holy  Sunday  mornin' 

come 
All  ob  de  fokes  was  fixed  for  Chu'ch  an'  ready  to 

leab  home. 


I2O        Uncle  Isaac:  or  Old  Days  in  the  South. 

Ole  Peyton  driv  de  carridge  hitched  to  de  pa'r  ob 

greys 
Whose  names  was  Fan  air   Savage,  an'  a  pa'r  wid 

frisky  ways — 
Dey'd  pull  dat  carridge  down  to  Chu'ch  an'  back  agin 

for  sho', 
An'  nar  a  tech  ob  Peyton's  whip  was  used  to  make 

dem  go. 
In  dar  would  go  ole  Miss,  Miss  Sue,  Marse  Bill,  an' 

yo'  An't  Ann 
An'  by  hit's  side  on  his  own  hoss  would  ride  my 

young  Marse  Ran'. 
Benin'  de  carridge  on  a  leetle  squar  made  wooden 

seat, 
Ef  'twas  a  all  day  meetin',  we  would  cuar  our  snac' 

to  eat. 
'Twas  put  in  a  big  basket  what  had  hilt  sometime 

shampain, 
An'  ob  dem  vic'tls  Unc'  Julius  fixed  nare  one  was 

gwine  complain. 
Ole  speckly  Bill,  his  ridin'  hoss,  yo'  Pa  would  always 

ride, 


De  Sundays  an'  De  'Ligion  Dat  is  Gone.        121 

An'  den  Miss  Lucy  on  dat  Charley'd  gallop  by  his 

side. 
I  driv  de  fo'  boss  wagon  filled  up  full  wid  girls  an' 

boys, 
Who  neber  had  no  odder  day  not  haf   so  full   ob 

joys. 
Dem  girls  an'  boys  I  speaks  ob,  Sar,  warn't  chilluns 

but  was  grown, 
An'  eb'ry  one  in  clar,  Sar,  had  a  sweetheart  he  mout 

own. 
Dey  all  warn't  ob  de  fambly,  some  was  comp'ny  what 

we  had. 
We  always  had  some  comp'ny,  'twas  dat  comp'ny 

made  us  glad. 
Dar's  scace  a  night  'cept  gues's  slep'  in  de  red  room 

or  de  blue, 
An'  ef  you'd  opened  de  green  room  do'  a  gues'd  a 

looked  at  you. 
We  picked  cle  nices'  straw  an'  spread  hit  on  de  wagon 

flo', 
An'  put  on  hit  de  boys  an'  girls  'twell  dar  warn't 

room  for  mo'. 


122        Uncle  Isaac:  or  Old  Days  in  the  South. 

Dey'd  make  me  drive  across  de  ruts  an'  ober  eb'ry 

stump, 
Untwell  dat  wagon  hardly  run  but  jes'  kep'  on  de 

jump. 
Hit  'twarn't  no  trouble  to  go  long  wid  dat  dar  fo' 

boss  team 
Dey  went  across  de  country  like  a  race  boss  in  a 

dream. 
For  to  dat  wagon  I  would  hitch  fo'  ob  our  fastes' 

mules, 
An'  ef  you'd  seen  us  gwine  our  way  you'd  think  we  all 

was  fools. 
So  soon's  we  got  up  to  de  Chu'ch  we  would  de  teams 

onhitch, 

An'  dar  would  be  so  many  dar  on  almos'  eb'ry  switch 
Dat  hung  down  from  a  tree  you'd  see  somebody's 

boss  or  mule 
A  stan'in'  tied  beneaf  de  oaks  or  poplars  whar  'twas 

cool. 

An'  den  de  fokes  would  scatter  for  to  hab  a  leetle  chat, 
De  oler  'fokes  gwine  disaway  an'   young  ones  dey 

gwine  dat. 


DC  Sundays  an'  DC  'Ligion  Dat  is  Gone.        123 

Dey'd  set  clown  on  a  root  or  stump  or  stan'  up  in  de 

shade, 
An'  talk  about  de  politix  or  what  good  craps  dey'd 

made. 
Dem's  ole  fokes  talkin'  clat  away  de  young  ones  mo' 

like  dubs 
Warn't  thinkin'  'bout  no  craps  or  law  but  only  'bout 

cley  lubs. 
I  spec'  dar  was  a  heap  er  courtin'  done  at  ole  Grub 

Hill, 
Bar's  plenty  insperation   dar  for  him  who   has   de 

will. 

Beneaf  de  trees  a  singin'  in  dat  Summer  shiny  spot 
I  reckon  dey  who  wanted  lub  mus'  some  ob  lub  hab 

got. 
Whar  Natur  was  a  courtin'  an'  cle  heab'ns  an'  erf  was 

met 
Hit  couldn't  a  been  so  hard  indeed,  some  gemp'man 

for  to  get 
His  sweetheart  to  de  highes'  pitch,  an'  tell  his  story 

so 
Dat  hit  was  nigh  onpos'bul  for  de  lady  to  say  no. 


124        Uncle  Isaac:  or  Old  Days  in  the  South. 

But  dar  dey  bofe,  de  ole  an'  young,  would  chat  an' 

talk  untwell 
Unc'  George  de  sexton  would  come  out  an'  ring  de 

las'  Chu'ch  bell. 
Dey'd  move  in  sloly  den,   de  ladies  settin'  on  one 

side, 
De  men  upon  de  tother,  an'  not  eb'n  de  groom  an' 

bride 
Was  'lowed  to  set  togedder.     Caze  dat  warn't  de 

Chu'ch's  law — 
No  brudder  set  wid  sister  an'  yo  Pa  mus'  leab  yo' 

Ma. 
'Twas  siperation  in  de  Chu'ch  what  in  de  Chu'ch  was 

jined, 
A  kinder  pullin'  off  de  tree  what  roun'  de  tree  was 

twined. 
I  cuarn't  ixplain  dat  rule  we  had,  hit  always  puzzled 

me, 
An'  I'se  been  tole  dat  down  in  town  dat  rule  you 

neber  see. 
But  here  dey  mus'  set  sip'rate,  an'  de  people  did  not 

rile, 


De  Sundays  an'  De  'Ligion  Dat  is  Gone.        125 

Because,  I  'spose,  dey'd  practised  hit  den  for  so  long 

a  while. 
De  choir  would  sing,  an'  Mister  Berkly'd  read  de 

Word  an'  pray, 
An'  by  an'  by  he'd  preach  de  sarmon  in  his  blessed 

way. 
De  people  riz  an'  fell  an'  set  an'  kneeled  to  pray  an' 

sing— 
Our  Chu'ch,  you  kno',  I  tole  you,  had  a  rule  for  eb'ry- 

thing — 

An'  lissened  to  de  sarmon,  dat  was  usu'l  tol'bul  long, 
An'  come  too  wid  a  sigh  or  stretch  to  jine  in  de  las' 

song. 
Do'  we  didn't  call  dem  songs.    Dat  warn't  de  Chu'ch's 

name.    'Twas  himes 
We  raised  an'  sung  in  Grub  Hill  Chu'ch  dem  blessed 

anshunt  times. 
But  arter  while  dey  would  git  through,  somewhar 

about  two  hours, 
An'  gether  on  de  grass  to  eat  among  de  wile  wood 

flowers. 


126        Uncle  Isaac:  or  Old  Days  in  the  South. 

You  'members  'bout  de  Chris'mus  dinners  I  tole  you 

we  had 
Dem  days  when  war  hadn't  teched  us,  an'  when  all 

dis  Ian'  was  glad. 
Well,  what  we  eat  at  all  day  meet'n,  hit's  truf  an'  hit's 

de  fac' 
Was  jes'  as  good  as  dat,  Sar,  'cept  we  called  hit  den 

a  snac'. 

Upon  de  grass  de  ladies  spread  a  table  clof  as  white 
As  moonshine  on  de  water,  M'am,  upon  a  summer 

night. 
An'  on  hit  dey  fixed  all  de  things  we  brung  wid  us  to 

eat, 
De  meats  an'  pickles,  brade  an'  cakes,  de  pies  an' 

odder  sweet 
Things  good  to  tas'e,  My  Sole !  'twas  good,  Marse 

Charley,  sho's  you  born, 
An'  plenty  too  ob  all  dem  things,  do'  'twarn't  long  fo' 

'twas  gone. 
You  gits  mo'  hongry  in  de  woods  den  you  does  in  de 

house, 


DC  Sundays  an'  De  'Ligion  Dat  is  Gone.        127 

An'  may  be  dat's  how  cum  de  tale  about  de  po'  Chu'ch 

mouse. 
Dey  gits  so  hongry  'bout  de  Chu'ch  whar  dar  ain't 

nuff'n'  to  eat 
Dey  gits  mo'  po'  den  odder  mice  who  libs  on  corn 

an'  wheat. 
We'd  hab  a  ham  an'  mutton  an'  some  chickens  baked 

an  fried, 
Some  sassage  an'  cole  shoul'er,  an'  dem  pickles  dat 

was  tied 
Up  so  cley  couldn't  to  pieces  drap,  dey  was  dat  rich 

an'  saf- 
I   clar  you'd   git   so   hongry  you  was   skeered  you 

wouldn't  git  haf 

Enuff  to  eat,  dem  'vict'als  was  so  'ticin'  to  yo'  eyes. 
Den  dar'd  be  cakes  an'  jelly,  sarbes,  an'  all  de  kine  ob 

pies. 
Deir  warn't  no  fokes  had  better,  Chile,  I  tells  bofe  ob 

you  dat, 
Gaze  all  we  brung  along  wid  us  was  cooked  by  Unkle 

Nat. 


128        Uncle  Isaac:  or  Old  Days  in  the  South. 

An'  he  didn't  hab  no  'sperior  cook  no  whar  about 

dese  parts, 
Dey  couldn't  tech  him  in  meats  or  brade,  or  puddin', 

pies,  or  tarts. 
Ole  Nat  was  jes'  a  nat'rul  cook.     De  good  Lord  put 

him  dar, 
An'  smellin'  ob  his  cookin'  made  you  hongry,  M'am, 

I  clar. 
All  dese  good  things  we  had  an'  raly  mo'  den  I  kin 

tell, 
Caze  I  cuarn't  'member  all  de  things.     I  'members 

none  too  well 
In  dese  here  days  when  age  is  come  an'  cotched  my 

inside  brain, 
An'  rheumatics  my  body  wid  a  constant   tech  ob 

pain. 
But  when  you  got  through  eatin'  ob  dat  snac  'twas 

sartin  sho' 
Yo'  stomick  was  full  to  de  top,  an'  you  didn't  want 

no  mo*. 
Den  dar  was  milk  an'  tea,  an'  wine,  an'  plenty  too  ob 

ice, 


De  Sundays  an'  De  'Ligion  Dat  is  Gone.        129 

An'  sumpthin'  in  cle  baskit  too  dat  tasted  mighty  nice 
An'  warm  upon  yo'  stomick,  ef  you  sarched  right 

good  for  hit. 
De  hunters  calls  hit  medecine  to  take  in  case  you'se 

bit 
By  one  de  sprade  hade  moc'sins  dat  mout  be  slidin' 

roun' 

An'  unbeknownst  to  you  a  settin  dar  upon  de  groun'. 
But  dat  was  in  de  cornder  of  de  basket,  kinder  hid— 
Ole  Marster  put  dat  in  dar  an'  cle  ladies  knowed  he 

did. 
So  ef  you  wanted  some  ob  dat  you'd  hab  to  mine  yo' 

eye, 
An'  sorter  take  a  off  time  chance  an'  slip  hit  on  de 

sly. 
Dey's  mighty  'tic'lar  in  dem  days,  'bout  how  de  young 

men  do, 
An'  dar  was  always  danger  ob  somebody  ketchin' 

you. 
But  by  an'  by  dey'd  quit  de  snac'  an'  in  de  Chu'ch 

retarn 
To  do  mo'  prayin'  an'  mo'  singin'  an'  a  bit  mo'  larn 

9 


130        Uncle  Isaac:  or  Old.  Days  in  the  South. 

From  out  a  shorter  eb'nin'  sarmon  dat  de  preacher 

gib, 
'Bout  how  to  die  an'  rise  to  Gord,  an'  how  we  ought 

er  lib 
Dat  we  mout  die  in  dat  dar  way  ob  which  he  tried  to 

speak, 
An'  how  we  ought  er  git  mo'  strength  caze  we  was 

awful  weak. 
An'  den  de  benediction  he  would  'voke  de  Lord  for 

us, 
An'  dat  was  all  day  meetin'   from  de  las'   unto  de 

fus'. 
We'd  hitch  up  den  de  teams  an  start  back  on  de  way 

we  come, 
A  joltin'  an'  a  joltin'  'twell  by  good  dark  we  was 

home. 
De  ole  fokes  an  de  young  fokes  den  would  chat  a 

while  an'  set 
Upon  de  poach  or  neaf  de  trees  digestin'  what  dey 

eat 
An'  yeard.     Dar's  heaper  wurk  for  bofe  de  brain  an' 

stomick,  M'am, 


De  Sundays  an'  De  'Ligion  Dat  is  Gone.        131 

When  you's  jes'  yeard  two  sarmons,  an'  been  eatin' 

much  ob  ham 
An'   a  whole  passle  sweets  an'   things  like  all  day 

meetin'  snac'— 
Ef  you  could  eber  try  hit,  M'am,  you'd  kno'  hit  was  a 

fac'. 
Den  when  de  moon  was  gwine  down,  an'  ole  Marster 

prars  had  sacle, 
Dey'd  say  de  "  Good  Night  "  on  de  poach,  an'  all 

would  go  to  bade. 
I  wisht  you  could  er  libbed  dem  days,  Marse  Charley. 

and  Miss  Kate, 
But  you  was  born  for  dat  good  time  a  jes'  a  few  years 

late. 
I  b'lieb  you  would  a  liked  de  things  ob  our  ole  fashion 

way — 
Good  Gracious,  yonder's  Becky,  she  is  done  come 

home  to-day! 


UNCLE  ISAAC'S  EXPERIENCE  WITH  NEW 
THINGS. 


UNCLE  ISAAC'S  EXPERIENCE  WITH  NEW 
THINGS. 


De  times  is  changed,  Marse  Charley,  an'  de  worl'  ain't 

gwine  las'  long, 
De  people's  got  to  projectin'  an'  doin'  things  dat's 

wrong. 
Dey's  lef  deir  nat'rul  bus'nes'  an'  is  try'n'  to  take 

a  ban' 

In  doin'  de  Almighty's  wurk  an'  managin'  His  plan. 
He  ain't  gwine  stan'  hit  long,  I  kno',  dis  bigity  dey's 

got, 
An'  de  fits'  thing  clat  dem  fokes  kno'  He's  gwine  wipe 

out  cle  lot. 
Dey  thinks  dey's  mighty  peart,  Smart  Elecks  what 

dey  is, 
A  foolin'  wid  dem  awful  things  de  good  Lord  knows 

is  His. 

[135] 


136        Uncle  Isaac:  or  Old  Days  in  the  Sontli. 

Dey's  cotched  de  lightnin'  out  de  skies,  an'  drawee! 

hit  like  a  wire 
Across  de  erf — 'tis  dangous  to   be  triflin'   wid   dat 

fire. 
Fse  always  yeard  dat  ef  you  took  a  tree  de  lightnin' 

struck 
For  wood  an'  burnt  hit  in  yo'  house,  you's  sho'  gwine 

hab  bad  luck; 
An'  chances  is  dat  sometime  soon  yo'  house  is  gwine 

git  hit, 
Caze  lightnin'  draws  de  lightnin',  an'  'twon't  do  to 

fool  wid  it. 
Don't  laff,  Marse  Charley,  what  I  ses,  I  tells  you  hit 

is  true, 
Fse  been  an'  seen  hit,  Sar,  mysef,  an'  knows  what  I 

tells  you. 
But  dat  ain't  all  dey  'spires  to  do  an'  aims  at  now- 

a-days 
In  all  dis  foolishnes'  dat's  come  wid  deir  new  fangled 

ways. 
Dey's  gwine  kill  heap  er  fokes  sometimes,  dat's  what 

I  prophesy, 


Uncle  Isaac's  Experience  With  New  Things.     137 

An'  I'm  gwine  keep  away  from  town,  caze  I  don't 

want  to  die 
In  no  sich  fractious  way,  but  when  de  good  Lord 

tells  me  go, 
I  wants  to  go  as  nat'rul,  Sar,  as  when  I  come,  you 

kno'. 
Dey's    got    de    homnybusses    runnin'    all    about    de 

town, 
An'  gwine  up  hill  as  fas',  Miss  Kate,  as  dey  is  gwine 

down, 
An'  nare  a  bit  ob  hoss  or  mule  hitched  to  hit's  ary 

een— 
'Tain't  nat'rul,  an'  no  sich  torn  fool  thing  I  ain't  neber 

seen. 
But  dar  cley  comes  an'  clar  dey  goes  wid  jes'  a  leetle 

wheel 
Hung  on  a  pole  aginst  a  wire  on  which  de  lightnin' 

steal 
Along   dey   ses.      You    cuarn't   see   nuffin    'cept    de 

runnin'  cuar, 
An'  when  one  stopped  I  ses,  ses  I,  "  Hit  ain't  gwine 

move  from  thar." 


138        Uncle  Isaac:  or  Old  Days  in  the  South. 

But  bless  yo'  sole,  Marse  Charley,  den  de  man  jes' 

move  a  screw, 
An'  long  she  went  so  mortal  fas'  you  mout  a  sacle 

she  flew. 
Git  on  one  Sar?     Naw  Sar,   ole  Isaac  neber  eben 

tried. 
I  tells  you  now,  on  one  clem  things  I  neber  am  gwine 

ride. 
Why,  'tis  de  fac',   Marse   Charley,  do'   I   ain't  ofFn 

much  afeered, 
When  I  seed  dat  thing  runnin'  loose  I  got  so  tur'bul 

skeered 
I  almos'  runned  mysef .     Hit  look  like  mir'cul  times 

had  come, 
An'  when  sich  is  de  sho'  'miff  case  I  wants  to  be  at 

home. 
But  dat  ain't  all  dey's  doin'  dar  in  dat  new  Richmon' 

town — 
'Tain't  ole  no  mo',  Marse  Charley,  an'  de  place  is 

sho'  gwine  down— 
Dey's  changed  de  good  ole  ways  yo'  kinfokes  had 

an'  dat  so  fas' 


Uncle  Isaac's  Experience  With  New  Things.     139 

Dat  sttmpthin's  boun'  to  happen  clar,  clat  wickednes* 

cuarn't  las'. 
Hit  made  me  sad,  Marse  Charley,  an'  I  tarmined  dat 

I  would 

Jes'  hurry  up  my  bus'ness  clar  de  fastes'  dat  I  could, 
An'  git  back  home  to  Becky  whar  'twas  peaceful  ef 

'twas  slo', 
To  stay  an'  lib  our  quiet  life  'twell  yonder  I  mus* 

g°- 
An'  so  I  called  to  mine  de  things  I'd  got  to  git  anr 

fix, 
An'   'mongst  de  lis'   ob  things  clere  was  a  vile  ob 

Number  Six. 
I   went  to   git   dat   Number   Six   in   Mister   Miller's 

sto'- 
He  come  from  up  'bout  Nottoway,  I  b'lieb,  Marse 

Poke,  you  kno' ! 
But  when  I  seed  him  in  de  sto'  I  b'liebed  his  mine  was 

gone, 

I  neber  seed  no  gempleman  in  sich  a  cuarrm'  on. 
He  had  a  black  knob  nigh  his  ear  an'  in  a  leetle 

hole 


140        Uncle  Isaac:  or  Old  Days  in  the  South. 

He  poked  his  mouf  an'  talked,  but  Sar,  to  save  my 

mortal  sole 
I  hardly  dars  to  try  to  tell  what  hit  'twas  dat  he 

sade. 
Hit  soundid,  an'  I  lissened,  as  ef  he'd  done  los'  his 

hade. 
But  sump'n  like  dis  seemed  what  I  yeard,  "  Nex'  fo' 

wid  eighteen  please." 
"Hillo!     Poke  Miller.     Yes.     Is  dat  you  George? 

About  dem  trees? 
Yes!     You  don't  hear?     Dey  cut  us  off.     Numminc. 

You  say  you'll  sell? 
Haf  doz'n  ob  Castor  He.     All  right.     I'll  sen'  hit 

up.    Yes.    Well! 
To-morrer?    Naw,  Good  joke,"  he  sade.    An'  den  he 

laffed.    "Too  high," 
He  sade  agin.     "  I'll  stop  by  on  my  way  down  town. 

Good-bye." 
An'  den  he  retched  an'  pulled  a  leetle  peg,  an'  ses  he, 

"Off"; 
An'  b'liebin'  dat  I  ought'n  'sprise  him,  I  gin  a  leetle 

cough. 


Uncle  Isaac's  Experience  With  Nezu  Tilings.     141 

He  looked  up  den  as  kindly,  wid  a  smile  upon  his 

face, 
An'  look  ob  welcome,  sayin',  "  Ike  I'm  glad  you's  in 

my  place." 
How  cum  he  call  me  "  Ike  "  you  reck'n,  I  neber  like 

clat  "  Ike," 
An'  hit's  de  one  thing  'bout  Marse  Poke  dat  I  ain't 

neber  like. 
I  ain't  no  "  Ike,"  he  ought  to  kno',  but  "  Isaac  "  is 

my  name, 
An'  sich  a  nickname  'pears  to  me,  I  clar,  a  sin  an' 

shame. 

An'  den  he  shook  me  by  de  han',  an'  tole  we  howclydo 
Jes'  nat'rul  as  he  eber  did.      Marse  Charley  I  tells 

you, 
De  man  he  skeer-ed  me,  an'  so  bad  I  didn't  kno'  zactly 

whar 
I  was.     I  jes'  could  ax,  Marse  Poke,  for  Gord's  sake, 

what's  dat  dar 

A  hangin'  on  de  wall.    Was  dat  you  taikin,  all  alone? 
He  sort  er  shook  hesef  an'  grinned,  an'  sade,  "  Ike 

dat's  a  plone." 


142        Uncle  Isaac:  or  Old  Days  in  the  South. 

But  dat  word  gib  me  no  idee  ob  what  he's  clrivin'  at. 
For  I  ain't  neber  yeard  ob  no  sich  thing  as  plone 

"  What's  dat 
Marse    Poke,"    I    axed.    "  Hit    'tis   a   mighty   useful 

thing,"  sade  he, 

A  try  in'  to  look  serus  like  an'  a  convincin'  me. 
"  A  great  kinvenience  to  all  bus'nes'  fokes.     Hit  lets 

you  talk 

To  people  who  libs  far  a  way,  too  far  for  you  to  walk 
To  fine  clem,  an'   wicl  dis  in'sment  you  simply  has 

to  cotch 
Yo'  wire  on  deirs,  den  ring  a  bell,  an'  dat  will  sartin 

fotch 
Dem  to  de  plone."    But  I  cuarn't  understan'  no  how 

dat  thing, 

For  how  is  I  a  bell  dat's  forty  miles  away  gwine  ring? 
Hit  Stan's  to  gumption  dat  you  cuarn't.     Bar's  sump- 
thin'  dar  dat's  wrong, 

Dat  distance  is  onreas'n'bul,  an'  entierly  too  long. 
He  sade  dar  was  a  nixtion  made — dat's  when  de  wires 

is  jined— 
An'  axed  me  ef  I'd  like  to  talk.     I  pos'tively  reclined. 


Uncle  Isaac's  Experience  With  New  Things.     143 

"  Hit  'tain't  gwine  hurt  you  Ike,"  he  sade,  "  I'll  let 

you  talk  to  Giles, 
Giles   Brown   clat   libs   at   Wilk'son   Shop,    I   reck'n 

dat's  forty  miles." 
"  I  wants  you  larn  about  dese  plones,  an'  see  how 

good  dey  wurks." 
An'  so  I  went  up  to  de  thing,  but  narvous  like  de 

jurks 
Dat  gits  a  po'  blin'  stag' grin'  hoss,  an'  trimblin'  an' 

afeered, 
Case  I  don't  want  tech  nuffin,'  Sar,  ob  which  Fse 

neber  yeard. 
An'  den  Marse  Poke  sade,  "  Seb'n  on  fo',"  an'  den 

a  bell  hit  ring. 
"  Now  put  dis  to  yo'  ear,"  he  sade.     I  didn't  want 

tech  de  thing; 
But  I  jes'  hitched  my  britches  up,  an'  stuck  hit  to 

my  ear, 
An'  sho,  enuff  dar  come  a  voice  I  could  not  hep'  but 

hear. 
"Hillo,"  hit  sade,   "Who's  dat?  "     "Who's  dat?  " 

"  Hit's  me,"  I  shakin'  sade, 


144        Uncle  Isaac:  or  Old  Days  in  the  South. 

An'  eb'ry  minnit  I  ixpict  to  see  mysef  drap  dade. 

"  Who's  you?  "  hit  axed,  "  Well,  W^ell !  "     "  I  is  ole 

Isaac,"  den  I  'plied. 
"What  does  you  want?"  I  yeard  agin — I  trimbled 

'twell  I  cried. 
"  I   don't  want   nuffin',   Sar,   please   Gord,"   I   sade, 

"  'cept  to  go  home, 
An'  ef  I  gits  back  dar  onct  mo'  from  hit  I'll  neber 

come 
Away  agin."    An'  den  dar  come  a  bur-r-r,  a  buz'n-n, 

an'  buz'n-n 
Right  in  my  ear  like  bumble  bees  an'  hornets  by  de 

doz'n, 
An'  fo'  de  lord  I  drapped  dat  thing  an'  neber  sade 

Good-bye, 
But  out'n  dat  sto'  I  runned  as  fas'  as  any  bird  could 

fly. 

I  knowed  hit  'twas  a  disprit  case,  an'  I  was  in  a  fix, 
An'  so  I  stopped  for  nuffin',  clean  forgot  my  Number 

Six. 
Fse  sorry  too,  Rebeccy's  ailin'  much  wid  cramps  ob 

late; 


Uncle  Isaac's  Experience  With  Nciv  Things.     145 

Please  sen'  her  some  ob  Number  Six  when  you  goes 

back,  Miss  Kate. 
I'd  had  enuff  ob  numbers,  Sar,  an'  I  didn't  want  no 

mo' — 
Bar's  debils  in   dem  numb'rin'   plones,   bad   debils, 

M'am,  I  kno'. 
Deir  want  no  chance  for  nobody  to  talk  in  dat  dar 

plone, 
Marse  Poke  was  standin'  off  a  piece,  an'  I  was  dar 

alone. 
Needn't  tell  me  'bout  no  lightnin'  caze  de  lightnin' 

hit  cuarn't  talk, 
An'  you  cuarn't  hear  nobody,  M'am,  when  hit's  too 

far  to  walk. 
Naw  Sar,  how  I  gwine  tell  how  cum  hit  'tw^as?     Hit 

'twan't  no  Giles, 
Caze  Giles  was  up  at  Wilk'son  Shop,  well  nigh  dat 

forty  miles.     . 
I  don't  kno'  nufrm'  'bout  hit,  an'  I'll  tech  hit,  Sar,  no 

mo', 
Dat's  one  thing  you  kin  sot  right  clown  for  sartin  an' 

for  sho'. 

10 


146        Uncle  Isaac:  or  Old  Days  in  the  South. 

So   soon's   I   got   my  senses   good   I   started   for  to 

fine 
Marse  Jeems,   an'   axed  a   gemp'man,   who   looked 

ginerous  an'  kine, 
Ef  he   could  tell   me  wharabouts   I   mout  look   for 

Marse  Jeems, 
An'  would  you  b'lieb  hit  dar  I  was  across  de  street 

hit  seems 
From  whar  his  office  was  in  dat  big  Chamber  ob 

Commerce. 

An'  ob  all  houses  to  git  in  or  out  hit  'tis  de  worse 
I  eber  seed.    I  walked  into  de  open  big  front  do', 
An'  dar  a  black  man  sade  Marse  Jeems  was  on  de 

sebenth  flo'. 

He  was  a  standin'  in  a  do'way  ob  a  leetle  room, 
A  holdin'  in  his  han',  I  b'lieb,  a  dustin'  feader  broom. 
I  axed  him  please  to  sho'  me  which  a  way  I'd  fine  de 

stars, 
Instade  he  sade,  "  Step  right  in  here."     I  saw  in  dar 

some  chars, 
An'  b'liebed  he'd  axed  me  to  set  down  untwell  he 

foun'  de  time 


Uncle  Isaac's  Experience  With  New  Things.     147 

To  sho'  me  whar  to  fine  de  steps  up  which  I  had  to 

clime; 

An'  so  I  went  into  his  room  an'  'umbly  took  a  seat, 
Not  payin'  no  attintion,  but  jes'  lookin'  in  de  street, 
When  Lord-a-marcy,  fo'  I  knowed  I  saw  de  flo  had 

riz — 
My  back  bone  sot  to  shiv'rin',  an'  my  marrow  bones 

dey  friz. 
I  thunk  de  jedgment  day  had  sho'ly  come,  an'  we  was 

boun' 
To  Kingdom  come,  an'  yit  I  thunk,  "  Thank  God  we 

ain't  gwine  down  !  " 
My  heart  was  in  my  thote,  Sar,  an'  my  voice  was 

choked  right  still, 
I   couldn't   pray,    I   jes'    could   feel,   hit   is   de   good 

Lord's  will. 
But    as    I    passed    anodder   no',    I    yeard    somebody 

say, 
"  Hit's  gwine  to  sno'."     Hit  busted  on  me  den,  in  no 

sich  way 
Ts   fokes   gwine   talk   ob   "Jedgment   Come."      Dat 

struck  my  mine  as  proof — 


Uncle  Isaac:  or  Old  Days  in  the  South. 

Some  biler  mus'  a  busted  an'  hit's  blowm'  us  through 

de  roof. 
I  tried  to  yell  an'  holler,  but  I  couldn't  to  save  my 

life, 
But  jes'  my  meanness  come  to  mine  an'  membrance 

ob  my  wife. 
I  couldn't  make,  Sar,  nar  bit  ob  soun',  my  mine  hit 

'fused  to  ac'. 
I  knowed  I  was  a  gwine,  mos'  gone,  an'  dat  was  plain 

a  fac'. 
I  warnt  gwine  see  my  wife  no  mo',  my  time  was  come 

to  die, 

An'  in  my  sole  I  tried  to  say,  "  Rebeccy,  wife  Good 
bye." 
So  par'lyzed  was  my  eb'ry  thought  hit  I  could  scacely 

think. 
But  when  I  felt  de  roof  had  come  I  yeard  a  leetle 

clink, 
An'  at  dat  minnit,   Sar,   dat  nigger  open  flung  de 

do', 
An'  turnin'  roun'  to  whar  I  s».  ,  he  sade,  "  De  sebenth 

flo'." 


Uncle  Isaac's  Experience  With  New  Things.     149 

At  fits'  I  thunk  I'd  git  a  stick  an'  broke  his  measly 

hade, 
For  he'd  done  skeered  me  den  an'  dar  'twell  I  was 

mo'n  haf  dade. 
Marse  Charley,  den  I'd  got  so  mad  I  raly  had  no 

sense, 

An'  I'd  a  sho'ly  kilt  clat  man  ef  eber  I'd  commence 
To  beat  him  as  I  wanted  to — De  Lord  forgib  de  sin, 
I'll  try  not  let  my  passion  git  de  bes'  ob  me  agin. 
Thank   God  de   Christian   'ligion  got  hit's  holt  an' 

fotched  me  'bout ! 
I  lamed  my  skeer  was  ig'nunce,  an'  so,  Sar,  I  jes'  got 

out. 
But  dat  black  nigger  mout  a  knowed  I  was  a  stranger 

man, 
An'  comin',  from  de  country  dat  I  didn't  much  under- 

stan' 

About  de  nelevators  what  but  newly  dey  is  built, 
An'  saved  me  from  de  skeer  I  got  dat  nearly  had  me 

kilt. 
But  fokes  don't  think  'bout  odder  fokes  as  onct  dey 

ust  er  do, 


150        Uncle  Isaac:  or  Old  Days  in  the  South. 

An'  kinenes'  now  ain't  rtmnin'  loose,  I  clar,  'twixt 

me  an'  you. 
I  tole  Marse  Jeems  about  my  skeer,  Marse  Jeems  is 

a  good  man. 
He  kinely  sade  'Twas  all  becaze  I  didn't  quite  under- 

stan' 
What  'twas  dat  brung  me  up.     A  nelevator's  what 

dey  call 
De  thing,  he  'splained  to  me,  an'  hit  climes  up  aginst 

a  wall 
Dar  want  no  danger  in  hit.     Hit  jes'  cuarred  you  to 

yo'  no' 
Widdout  yo'  walkin'  up  dem  stars  a  thousan'  steps 

or  mo'. 
Den  when  I  had  done  axed  him  for  to  please  to  buy 

my  meat, 
An'  tole  him  I  was  hurrin'  home  an'  mus'  go  down  de 

street, 
He  took  me  up  de  passage  an'  to  whar  de  steps  went 

down, 
An'  I  ain't  neber  been  so  glad  as  when  I  retched  de 

groun'. 


Uncle  Isaac's  Experience  With  Neiv  Things.     151 

Tain't  right,  Marse  Charley,  I  cuarn't  b'lieb  hit,  Sar, 

hit  cuarn't  be  right, 
De  Lord  cuarn't  be  approvin'  what  ain't  nat'rul  to  de 

sight. 
An'  neber  sence  de  worl'  was  made  from  Bersheber 

to  Dan 
We  fokes  ain't  knowed  de  flo's  to  rise  no  whar  in  dis 

Gord's  Ian'. 
De  people  cley  ain't  'umble,  dey's  ezalted  'twell  dey's 

proud, 
An'   I'm  gwine  keep  mysef  from  out  dat  stiff  an' 

naked  crowd. 
Amelia's  good  enuff  for  me,  I'll  stay  here  'twell  I 

die, 
Here  is  contintment  now,  Miss  Kate,  de  good  Ian' 

by  an'  by. 
I  ain't  gwine  back  to  town  no  mo',  but  here  I'm 

gwine  to  stay, 

Whar  me  an'  my  Rebeccy  can  lib  in  de  ole  time  way, 
As  onct  hit  'twas  in  my  young  days  when  joy  was  in 

de  Ian', 


152        Uncle  Isaac:  or  Old  Days  in  the  South. 

Air  fokes  had  'nuff  to  do,  Sar,  widdout  meddlin'  wid 
Cord's  plan. 

De  butter's  come  Rebeccy  now,  an'  dar's  a  done  ash- 
cake, 

Come  gib  dese  chilluns  one  mo'  snac'  for  good  ole 
timeses  sake. 

Dat  buttermilk  an'  cake  is  good,  I  yeard,  M'am,  what 
you  sade. 

Rebeccy  git  de  'lasses  too,  I  wants  some  on  my 
brade. 


MARSE  RAN'S  HOSS. 


MARSE  RAN'S  HOSS. 


I'se  neber  tole  you  'bout  dat  boss,  an'  how  dat  day 

be  died? 
Why,  when  I  got  up  to  Marse  Ran',  dar  he  laid  by  his 

side. 
I  mus'  a  been  so  strained  in  talkin'  den  about  Marse 

Ran', 

I  oberlooked  de  dyin'  boss  in  griebin'  for  de  man. 
Naw,  Sar,  de  boss  warn't  sabed,  but  on  dat  battlefier 

ob  woe 
He  bled  'long  wid  his  marster,  an'  wid  him  he  tried 

to  go. 
'Tis  mighty  nigh  as  sad,  Sar,  now  to  think  'bout  dat 

dar  boss 

As  'tis  ob  my  young  marster.     Dey  is  been  my  life 
long  cross 

In  memory  to  bar  along  de  tired  part  ob  my  life — 

[155] 


156        Uncle  Isaac:  or  Old  Days  in  the  South. 

Dey  all  is  gone,  clem  ole  time  frien's,  'cept  Becky  dar, 

my  wife. 
I  wisht  I  could  a  sabed  dat  boss,  an'  brung  him  borne 

agin, 
I  b'lieb  hit  would  a  hoped  me  in  cle  new  life  dat  set 

in 
Wid  dat  sad  clay  ob  Gettysburg,  an'  which  cuarn't 

hab  no  een 
Untwell  ole  Isaac's  lookt  his  las'  upon  cle  gole  an' 

green 
Ob  ole  Amelia's  fiel's,  an'  yeard  de  angel's  sullem 

call 
To  come  up  dar  an'  jine  'urn  \vhar  you  cuarn't  go 

way  at  all. 
We  three  was  always  gwine  toguther,  den  for  us  to 

part 
Was  mos'  too  much  for  Isaac,  an'  hit  like  to  broke 

his  heart. 
Dey  went  away  in  glory,   an'   dey  lef   me  here  in 

pains, 
Wid  grief  a  pullin'  on  my  sole  like  Sabage  on  cle 

reins. 


Marse  Ran's  Hoss.  157 

Hit  had  to  bus'  up  sumpthin'  for  sich  mis'ry  could 

not  las', 

An'  so  hit  busted  up  my  life,  an'  lef  me  wicl  de  pas'. 
But  ef  I  could  a  brung  him  home,  an'  kep'  him  here 

to  stay, 
An'  fed,  an'  curr'd,  an'  rubbed,  an'  breshed  him  off 

twict  eb'ry  day, 
Dat   mout  a  made   me  sorter  feel   some   nigher  to 

Marse  Ran' — 
De  seein'  ob  de  hoss  a  fetchin'  'membrance  ob  de 

man. 
But  always  stay'n  toguther  dey  was  jined  too,  Sar,  in 

deff; 
'Cept'n  I  caurn't  tell  how  'twas  at  all  dat  Isaac  den 

was  lef. 
Bofe  on  us,  Sar,  belonged  to  him,  an'  nar  one  could 

he  spar, 
But  I  was  lef  to  stay  down  here,  Bruce  went  wid  him 

up  dar. 
His  mammy  was  a  Black  Hawk  mar,  a  Red  Eye  colt 

his  sire, 


158        Uncle  Isaac:  or  Old  Days  in  the  South. 

An'  nar  a  boss  in  dese  here  parts  could  rank  ''mongst 

bosses  higher. 
His  bres'  was  broad  an'  easy,  an'  his  ankles  clean 

an  neat, 
Like  dem  de  high  born  ladies  show  a  walkin'  on  de 

street. 
His  weathers  clim  a  leetle  high,  jes'  high  'nuff  for  de 

slope 
Dat  makes  a  graceful  back  line  when  you  sont  him 

in  a  lope. 
His  rump  was  roun'  an'  plump,  Sar,  wid  de  barres' 

ob  a  slide, 
To  make  you  kno'  dat  boss  was  gwine  howcum  his 

marster  ride. 
His  nose  was  small  enuff,  I  b'lieb,  to  drink  out  ob  a 

glass, 
An'  not  too  much  ob  daylight  fotchecl  'twixt  him, 

Sar,  an'  de  grass. 
His  tail  hung  \vabin',  glis'nin',  Sar,  jes'  like  a  girl's 

gole  ha'r, 
His  leetle  years  an'  hade  a  archin'  yonder  in  der  ar. 


Marse  Ran's  Hoss.  159 

His   mussels   stood   out   fa'r   to   'veal   what   kinder 

strength  he  had, 
Wid  nar  a  pint  about  him  dat  a  hossman  thought 

was  bad. 
His  stride  was  sumpthin'  monstrous,  an'  o'  a  ten  foot 

gate 
He  flung  hesef  as  easy  as  you'd  jump  dat  stick  Miss 

Kate. 
A  king's  name,  Sar,  dey  gib  him,  but  for  short  dey 

called  him  "  Bruce"; 
An'  when,  M'am,  he  got  started  hit  'twas  like  de  win' 

turned  loose. 
Jes'  let  Marse  Ran'  stan'  neaf  dat  tree  a  hour  by 

crack  ob  day, 
His   horn   a  blowin',   windin',   driftin'   up   de  stable 

way, 
Dat  hoss  was  set  a  jumpin',  crazy,  so  M'am,  dat  you 

mout 
A  thunk  you  yeard  him  hoU'rin',  "  Isaac  come  an'  let 

me  out." 
An'   ef  you  neber  answer  quick  he'd   git  so   awful 

mad, 


160        Uncle  Isaac:  or  Old  Days  in  the  South. 

You'd  think  he'se  gwine  bus'  eb'rything,  an'  wish, 

Sar,  dat  you  had. 
Den  when  Marse  Ran'  was  on  him,  an'  a  openin'  was 

de  houn's, 
De  red  fox  gwine  a  scurrin'  'cross  de  misty,  grey  low- 

groun's, 
Den  doublin'  in  Ocmulgee,  an'  now  gwine  towards 

de  mill, 
A  runnin'  on  de  pastur  fence,  den  humpin'  up  de 

hill, 
A  way  off  yonder  sneakin',   an'   den   racin'   on   his 

track, 
A   brazen    ole   smart    Elleck,    now   a   comin'    right 

straight  back, 
You'd  sho'  see  sumpthin'  in  de  ar  a  scummin'  nigh 

de  erf, 
An'  dat  was  Bruce  a  flyin'  like  de  didn't  want  tech  de 

turf. 
'Twas  like  a  streak  ob  sorrel  jes'  a  splittin'  through 

de  ar, 
Marse  Ran'  a  settin'  in  de  sad'l  like  you  sets  in  a 

char. 


Marse  Ran's  Hoss.  161 

He  an'  cle  hoss  an'  sad'l,  Sar,  was  beglued  into  one 

piece— 
A   man  an'   hoss  got  jined   into   a  new  kine  ob   a 

beas'. 
I  see  hit  all  agin  so  plain.     Look  yonder,  yonder 

look! 
Jes'  by  dat  pint  ob  ches'nuts  whar  de  road  is  made  a 

crook. 
My  Gord,  M'am,  ain't  dat  music,  what  dem  houn's 

is  soundin'  now? 
Dey's  runnin'  by  de  sight,  an'  dey'll  soon  cotch  ole 

Red  I  'low. 
Hark,  hark,  to  him  ole  Fashion,  you  is  gwine  now 

Music,  hark! 
Ole  Miss  is  in  de  middle,  an'  dat's  Black  Dick's  ole 

time  bark. 
Ah,  here  dey  comes,  de  riders,  but  who'se  dat  dar  in 

de  lead? 
Marse  Ran'  an'  Bruce,  an'  nar  one  else,  I  knowed  dat 

'fo  I  seed. 
My  Gord  how  dat  hoss  races,  wid  his  hade  an'  tail 

out  straight, 
ii 


162        Uncle  Isaac:  or  Old  Days  in  the  South. 

Now  hystin'  into  flyin',   Sar,  right  o'   dat  ten  foot 

gate. 
Dey  looks  not  like  dey's  erfly  things,  a  rale  boss  an' 

a  man, 

But  angel-man  on  angel-hoss  a  sailin'  cross  de  Ian'. 
An'  so  he'se  now,  young  Mistis',  for  a  sperit  he  was 

made 
To  rise  from  off  dat  battlefiel'  on  which  I  saw  him 

dade. 
An'  how  cum  dat  his  hoss  ain't  dar?     He  died  dat 

same  day  too, 
A  frien'  dat  was  de  fastes',  an'  as  faithful,  Sar,  an' 

true 
As  on  dis  erf,  no  whar  you  go,  you  fine  ar  human 

frien'. 

An'  is  dar  enny  reason  for  dat  lub  to  bus'  an'  en'? 
Some  how  or  nuther  I  cuarn't  hep'  but  b'lieb  dat  hoss 

to  be 
A  angel-hoss  up  yonder  wid  his  marster,  M'am,  you 

see! 
I  hopes  hit  'tain't  onchristian,  caze  I  wants  to  hab 

hit  so, 


Marse  Rail's  Floss.  163 

An'  ef  'tain't  wrong  'fo  Gord,  I'm  gwine  to  keep  de 

thought,  you  kno' ! 
I  clar,  Marse  Charley,  when  I  gits  to  'member  an'  to 

tell 
Ob  dem  ole  days,  an'  deir  ole  ways,  I  clar,  Miss  Kate, 

M'am,  well, 
Indeed  hit  'pears  like  'tain't  no  thought,  but  fac'  is 

what  I  see, 

An'  dat  ole  life  is  back  agin,  an'  in  hit  dar  is  me. 
I  tries  to  tell  'bout  what  dar  was,  an'  'stead  I  tells 

what  is — 
De  pas'  ain't  pas'  no  mo'  at  all,  but  present's  what 

hit  'tis. 
An'  den  dey'd  come  back  fom  de  chase,  de  reins  a 

hangin'  loose, 
Marse  Ran'  a  smilin',  singin',  an'  dat  proud  highflyer 

Bruce 
A  sort  er  dancin',  an'  a  showin'  dat  he  knowed  de 

tail 

His  marster  had  was  got  by  him  a  flyin'  like  a  gale 
Across  de  fiel's  air  gullies,  on  de  hard  groun',  in  de 

san' — 


164        Uncle  Isaac:  or  Old  Days  in  the  South. 

I  b'lieb  like  me  clat  boss  was  proud  ob  my  young 

Marster  Ran'. 
An'  when  we  got  in  to  cle  war,  we  knowed  den  what 

he  was — 
I  clar  to  Heab'n,  M'am,  dat  he  done  all  dat  we  fokeses 

does. 
Marse  Sweeney'd  blow  de  gallop,  gallop,   blow  de 

walk,  he'd  walk; 
He  clone  mos'  eb'rything  dat  we  could  do  'cept'n 

'twas  to  talk. 
Nar  nicker' d   nick   'twell   Rebellee,   he   didn't   want 

sleep  'twell  Taps, 
He  knowed  de  bugler's  soun's  as  well's  a  farmer 

knows  his  craps. 
You  blow  de  call  to  water,  Sar,  an'  dat  hoss  sho' 

would  drink, 

But  thirsty  nar  anodder  time  as  eber  I  could  think. 
When  Boots  an'  Saddles  was  de  note  dat  brave  ole 

Sweeney  soun' 
'Twas  almos'  much  as  I  could  do  to  keep  Bruce  on  de 

groun'. 


Marse  Ran's  Hoss.  165 

But  when  he  blowed  de  Charge,  my  Gord,  dat  hoss 

was  sho'  a  sight ! 
His  eyes  all  wile,  his  body  trimblin',  an'  de  curb  rein 

tight 
As  iron,  an'  ef  den  Marse  Ran'  hadn't  a  let  him  free 

rein  go, 
He'd  sartin  bus'  in  splinters,  an'  'twarn't  no  use  tell 

him  "  Whoa." 
He  was  a  nat'rul  sojer-hoss  as  my  young  Marster 

Ran' 

Was  nat'rul  born  an'  bred  to  be  de  braves'  sojer-man. 
Dat  las'  sad  day  ob  Bruce  lifetime  I  rubbed  him  down 

so  bright 

His  sorrel  color  lookt  to  me  like  gole  dus'  in  de  light. 
His  mane  like  spun  silk  sailin',  an'  his  pride  a  sight 

to  see, 
A  savin'  to  all  on  us  dar,  "  jes'  lookt  Marse  Ran'  an' 

me." 
I  hilt  his  hade  untwell  Marse  Ran  his  sad'l  he'd  good 

got  on, 
An'  den  befo'  I'de  time  to  think  dey  bofe  on  'um  was 

gone. 


i66        Uncle  Isaac:  or  Old  Days  in  the  South. 

I  hollered  to  Marse  Ran'  "  Good-bye  ";  Til  grieb  now 

'twell  I  die, 
I  neber  kiss   ole  Bruce  dat  day,   an'   tole  him  too 

"  Good-bye." 
Dey  went  like  joy  a  flashin'  M'am,  when  long  hit 

cuarn't  abide, 
An'    den    I    seed    deni    stoppin'    short    close   by   de 

gin'rul's  side. 

One  time  he  darted  like  a  narrow  to  dat  awful  fence, 
To  speak  to  Gin'rul  Garnett  dar,  jes'  when  de  wuss 

commence. 
I  spec'  dat  was  de  las'  word  dat  brave  Gin'rul  Garnett 

sacle, 
A  ans'rin'  ob  Marse  Ran',  for  in  a  sec'n  dey  shot 

him  dade. 
Den  back  through  all  dat  smoke  an'  deff  Bruce  brung 

Marse  Ran'  away 
So  swif  you  scace  could  see  his  laigs,  but  jes'  de  man 

in  grey. 
But  Bruce  was  done  his  work  an'  life.     I'se  tole  you 

Marse  Ran'  died 


Marse  Ran's  Hoss.  167 

A  piece  beyant  dat  tur'ble  spot.     Dar  Bruce  laid  at 

his  side. 
Bade,  dade,  he  too,  his  velvit  eyes  stretched  upward 

tow'd  de  sky, 
I  knowed  he  didn't  want  lib  no  mo'  when  his  young* 

Marster  die. 
Dat  was  his  glor'ous  een,  my  blessed  Marster's  hoss ! 

Poor  Bruce, 
I  hopes  you  had  a  sole  brave  hoss  for  Gord  to  turn 

a  loose ! 
Good-bye,  my  chillnns.     Don't  cry  M'am,  my  los' 

was  sho'  deir  gain. 
Rebeccy,  bett'r  take  in  clem  close,  hit  looks  like  hit's 

gwine  rain. 


UNCLE  ISAAC  HAS  MORE  EXPERIENCE. 


UNCLE  ISAAC  HAS  MORE  EXPERIENCE. 


Marse  Charley  don't  you  recken  dat  de  jedgment's 

comin'  'long, 
De  people's  got  so  vile  like,  an'  is  doin'  so  much 

wrong? 
De  worl'  seems  upside  down,  Sar,  an'  de  country  is 

upsot 

As  bad  in  crazy  notions  as  dem  dat  de  town  is  got. 
I'se  been  dat  skeered  dis  week,  Sar,  dat  I  hardly  dars 

to  go 
Fur  from  de  house  or  Becky;  I  don't  want  to  lef  de 

do'. 
Dese  times  is  fulled  up  to  de  brim  wid  foolishness  an1 

sin, 
An'  fokes  is  got  so  curous  now  wid  all  dere  pro- 

jectin'. 

[in] 


iy2        Uncle  Isaac:  or  Old  Days  in  the  South. 

Good  manners  don't  concarn  'em,  nor  de  vartues  ob 

de  sole; 
Dey's  sacrificed  mos'  ob  dat,  Sar,  for  dollars  clat  is 

gole. 
'Twas  honor  once  wid  all  de  fokes  who  libbed  in  dis 

here  Ian', 
But  money's  lub  is  got  de  mos',  an'  dat,  Sar,  ruins  a 

man. 
De  Chu'ches,  eben  dey  ain't  right,  an'  Sar,  I  dars  to 

say, 

Dey'd  better  git  to  singin'  an'  mo'  often  too  to  pray. 
Dey  tried  Unk'  Jonah  tother  day  for  dancin'  week  fo' 

las', 
An'  would  you  b'lieb  hit,  when  dat  trial  raly  come  to 

pas', 
Dey  neber  done  a  thing  to  him,  do  all  ob  us  had 

thunk 
Dey'd  tarn  him  out;  an'  all  becase  he  sade  dat  he  was 

drunk. 
De  dancin'  was  a  nawful  sin,  but  not  de  drunk,  an' 

dat's 
A  strainin'  at  de  camels  an'  a  chokin'  on  de  gnats. 


Uncle  Isaac  Has  More  Experience.  173 

De  Chu'ch  is  gwine  to  bust  up  ef  clat  is  de  way  cley 

does, 
For  in.  Cord's  Chu'ch  dem  idees,  Sar,  'tis  sartin  neber 

was, 
An'  neber  will  be  ef  de  Lord  is  gwine  to  hab  His 

wish, 
An'  'fore  dey  knows  dem  fokes  will  burn  like  Moses 

in  de  bush. 
How  cum  de  fokes  ain't  got  no  sense,  an'  what's  got 

in  deir  hade? 
I  sho'  misstan's  heap  dat  cley  does,  an'  mos'  all  dat  is 

sade. 
Marse  Charley  what  does  "divers"  mean:*     I  don't 

conceib  dat  word, 

An'  fur  as  I  now  'members,  I  ain't  hit  befo'  is  yeard. 
Mo'  den  one  kine,  an'  diffrunt  kine  ob  sickness  or  ob 

fokes? 
I  knowed  dat  nigger  was  a  fool,  his  sarmons  jes' 

some  jokes. 

Dey  ain't  no  mo'  a  sarmon  den  a  bucket  is  a  well, 
An'  ha'f  de  time  dat  nigger  don't  kno'  what  he'se 

try'n'  to  tell. 


174        Uncle  Isaac:  or  Old  Days  in  the  South. 

De   nigger   ain't   a   nat'rul   preacher   do   he   nat'rul 

sings — 
His  songs  is  music  sho'  'nuff,  Sar,  but  mixed  up  is 

de  things 
He  tries  to  gospul  on  de  fokes,  an'  ef  dey  had  good 

sense 
Dey'd  stop  dese  black  fool  preachers  fo',   Sar,  dey 

commence. 
A   nigger   makes   a   sexton,   but   when   he   tries   to 

preach, 
Hit's  hystin'  for  de  simmons  dat  is  hung  too  high  to 

reach. 

I  axed  you  'bout  dem  "  divers,"  caze  de  odder  Sun 
day  night, 
Down  yonder  at  de  colored  Chu'ch  dat  nigger  Gabrul 

White 
A  preachin'  ob  de  sarmon,  sacle  he  took  up  for  de 

tex', 
"  De   Lord   a  healin'   divers  ob   deseases,"   an'   den 

nex', 
He  sade  he  "  'vided  up  de  sarmon  into  sev'rul  parts, 


Uncle  Isaac  Has  More  Experience.  175 

An'  hoped  de  congregation  would  receib  hit  in  deir 

hearts." 
u  Dey    sho'    had    heap    er    kine    ob    sicknes',"    he 

reck'n'd,  "  ober  thar 
'Bout  whar  de  Lord  was  preachin'  dis,  a  heap  an' 

mo'  to  spar. 
But  den,"  he  sade,  <k  he  spec'  dat  was  mos'  likely  what 

we  had, 
Caze  sicknes'  in  dis  country  had  done  gone  an'  got 

as  bad 
As  hit  could  git,"  he  reckened,  "  an'  dat  ole  Jeru- 

salum 

Hadn't  got  no  sort  er  'vantage  when  de  time  ob  sick- 
lies'  come. 
A. IT  den,"  he  sade,  "  de  Small  Pox  is  a  mighty  bad 

desease, 
But  hit  you  kin  git  cured  ob,  ef  de  bumps  you'll  only 

grease 
Wid  coon  grease,  an'  de  doctor  understan'  de  Small 

Pox  way, 
When  hit's  upon  a  pusson  sot  an'  sho'ed  'twas  gwine 

to  stay. 


176        Uncle  Isaac:  or  Old  Days  in  the  South. 

An'  Chol'ry,  you  kin  cure  dat,"  he  monstrated  up  an' 

down, 
"  Ef  you  gits  you  quick  a  doctor,  who  ain't  not  fur 

off  de  groun'. 

An'  eben  in  de  Fever  dat  is  yaller,  dar's  a  chance, 
Ef  you  gits  you  a  nuss  as  good  as  ole  Miss  Mollie's 

Nance. 
But   ef  you   gits  de   '  divers,'  "   den   dat  black  fool 

nigger  sade, 
u  Hit   'tain't  no  use  ob  talkin'   for  hit's  'Good-bye 

John,'  you'se  dade." 
I  knowed  dat  he  was  sassin'  clar  widdout  a  bit  ob 

sense, 

An'  nar  a  idee  in  his  hade  befo'  he  had  commence. 
Dey's  gwine  bust  up  de  Chu'ch,  Sar,  ef  dey  keeps 

along  dis  road, 
An'  'ligion's  gwine  start  backward  from  de  way  hit's 

pintin'  tow'd. 

I  tole  you  I  was  skeered  dis  week,  an'  so  I  was  indeed. 
I  yeard  an'  seed  what  here  befo'  I  neber  yeard  or 

seed. 
I  was  a  fotchin'  home  a  turkle   Chewsday  eb'nin'  late, 


Uncle  Isaac  Has  More  Experience.  177 

An'  jes'  befo'  I  retched  de  tarn  dar  by  de  stable  gate, 
I  passed  one  dese  here  men  fokes  what  dey  calls  a 

benquilquis'*, 
Who'se  larnt  to  pucker  up  his  mouf  in  some  sort  ob  a 

twis', 

An'  fling  his  voice  mos'  any  whar,  an'  in  mos'  any 
thing, 

A  settin'  hit  to  talkin'  or  a  makin'  hit  to  sing. 
I  warn't  a  studyin'  nuffin',  but  jes'  slo'ly  gwine  my 

way, 

When  fo'  de  Lord  in  Heab'n,  I  yeard  dat  turkle  say, 
"  Now  when  is  you  gwine  drap  me,  when  is  you 

gwine  drap  me  down?  " 
"  For  Gord's  sake  now,"  I  sade,  an'  den  I  drapped  him 

on  de  groun', 
An'  runned  a  trimblin'  to  my  house  as  fas'  as  I  could 

run, 
A  prayin',  an'  a  won'drin'  what  dat  turkle  could  er 

done 

To  git  a  voice  ob  human  kine,  an'  talk  to  me  like  dat,. 
About  a  drappin'  ob  him  down,  an'  Sar'  I  drapped 

him  flat. 

12 


178        Uncle  Isaac:  or  Old  Days  in  the  South. 

But  by  an'  by  I  yeard  somebody  knockin'  on  my  do', 
An'  dar  a  man  stood  at  hit,  who  sade,  "  Howdy  Uncle 

Joe." 
"  I  ain't  name  Joe,"  I  'plied  to  him,  "  but  Isaac  is  my 

name. 
I'm  well   I  thanky  Marster,  an'   I  hope  you  is  de 

same." 
"  Yo'  turkle's  up  de  road,"  he  sade,  "  an'  hadn't  you 

better  walk 

Up  dar  an'  git  him  unkle,  for  dat  turkle  didn't  talk. 
'Twas  me  who  done  de  talkin'.     Now  go  git  him  for 

yo'  wife." 
But  Sar,  I  wouldn't  a  teched  dat  turkle  not  to  sabe 

my  life. 
I  don't  kno'  nuffin'  'bout  de  benquilquis',  but  dis  I 

kno', 

A  turkle  what  kin  talk  to  me  I'm  gwine  to  sho'  let  go. 
Dis  trabblin'  roun  de  country  wid  a  nar  a  bit  ob  aim, 
But  skeerin'  ignunt  pussons,  Sar,  hit  'tis  a  sin  an' 

shame. 
I  reck'n  Fse  out  de  times,  Sar,  an'  I  cuarn't  quite 

understan' 


Uncle  Isaac  Has  More  Experience.  179 

About  de  fangled  things  dat's  come  here  lately  in  de 

Ian'; 
An'  when  I  sees  one  ob  dese  'ventions  what  dey's 

gone  an'  built, 
I  gits  a  crawlin'  in  my  back  like  I  was  gwine  git 

kilt— 

A  sorter  chill  an'  creepin'  dat  I  hardly  kin  ixplain. 
But  Sar,  hit  'tis  de  ekal  ob  mos'  any  sort  er  pain. 
De  odder  day  I  went  to  fine  dat  yonder  one  eared 

hog, 
An'  gittin'  kind  er  winded,  Sar,  I  set  down  on  dat 

log 
Dat's  layin'  in  de  forks  ob  road  dar  nigh  de  gran'ry 

gate. 
You  knows  de  log  I  speaks  ob  for  you'se  set  dar  wid 

Miss  Kate— 
When  fo'  I  knowed  I  yeard  a  soun'  like  win'  betwixt 

a  crack, 
Whew,  whew,  hit  sounded  comin'  up  a  swish  behin' 

my  back. 
I  looked  up  in  a  minnit,  an'  Marse  Charley,  Lordy, 

dar 


i8o        Uncle  Isaac:  or  Old  Days  in  the  South. 

I  saw  a  sight  dat  skeered  me  so  hit  mos'  unkinked  my 

liar. 
A  buggy  had  done  busted  loose,  an'  on  two  ob  de 

wheels, 
A  man  was  settin'  an'  a  gwine  like  yuars  across  de 

fiel's. 
One  was  a  great  big  high  wheel,  an'  de  odder  hit 

'twas  small, 
An'  hitched  behin'  each  odder,  wid  no  way  to  go  at 

all. 
'Twarn't  right  for  dem  to  stan'  up,  an'  howcum  dey 

went  along 
I  cuarn't  deceib  to  sabe  my  life.     I  mus'  hab  got  all 

wrong. 
You  reck'n  my  hade  is  tangled  an'  my  senses  is  all 

gone? 
I'm  feered  I'll  git  so  arter  while  I  cuarn't  weed  out 

my  corn. 
Wid  nar  a  thing  a  pullin',  Sar,  an'  nar  a  thing  to 

push 
Dem  wheels  an'  man  went  clown  de  road  in  Sar,  a 

parfec'  rush. 


Uncle  Isaac  Has  More  Experience.  181 

I  hollered  when  I  saw  de  thing  an'  fell  back  on  de 


An'  hurt  my  rheumaticky  laig,  an'  neber  cotch  dat 

hog 
'Twell  Wensday,  when  down  yonder  in  de  guarden  at 

de  spring 

I  foun'  him  hard  a  rootin'  an'  a  spilin'  eb'rything. 
What  for  you  call  dat  thing  I  seed  de  man  a  try'n  to 

ride? 
Marse  Charley  was  hit  nat'rul?    Is  de  ole  time  things 

all  died? 
A  bisickem,  you  ses  hit  'twas?    I  cuarn't  quite  under- 

stan'. 
I'd  like  to  sick  de  dogs  on  sich  an'  sick  'em  out  de 

Ian'. 
I  mean  dese  all  new  things  dey's  fetched  us  in  dese 

later  days, 

A  chasin'  out  de  country  all  ob  our  ole  fashion  ways. 
You  cuarn't  stop  any  longer,  an'  is  gwine  to  hunt 

to-day? 
A  drove  ob  patridges  is  usin'   down  de  lowgroun' 

way. 


1 82        Uncle  Isaac:  or  Old  Days  in  the  South. 

Turn   to   de  lef   Marse   Charley,   when  mos'   at   de 

spring  you  come, 
An'  in  dat  fiel'  I'm  almos'  sho'  you'se  sartin  to  fine 

some. 
Good  mornin',  Sar,  I'm  busy  too,  I'm  got  to  men' 

my  cuart. 
Rebeccy  how  dat  chile  is  growed,  an'  Lordy,  ain't  he 

smart ! 


UNCLE  ISAACS  LAMENT. 


MARSE  CHARLEY." 


UNCLE  ISAAC'S  LAMENT. 


I'm  glad  you  liked  de  snac',  M'am,  in  de  days  dat 

now  is  pas' 
Fse  gin  yo'  Par  a  heap  like  dat  out  dar  upon  dat 

grass. 
He'd  come  down  to  clis  cabin  for  Ant  Becky's  hot 

hoe-cake— 
Nar  one  would  suit  him  ha'f  as  good  as  dem  Ant 

Becky  make. 
I  feels  not  much  like  talking  Sar,  besides  hit's  gittin' 

late, 
An'  while  for  you  hit  mout'n  be  wrong  'twon't  do  for 

you  Miss  Kate 

To  be  a  walkin'  in  de  woods  arfter  de  night  has  fell, 
An'  now  my  mine  is  runnin'  back  I'm  feared  dat  I 

cuarn't  tell 

You  nuffin'  dat  is  joyous,  for  I'm  got  my  sadful  tone, 

[187] 


i88        Uncle  Isaac:  or  Old  Days  in  the  South. 

Dat  tech  dat  stops  yo'  singin7  an'  den  cunjers  up  yo' 

moan. 

De  pas'  is  pas'  foreber  an'  hit's  happines'  is  gone : 
No  cradle's  in  de  wheatfiel',  an'  no  song  comes  out 

de  corn, 
No  Marster's  in  de  big  house,  an'  no  Mistis  writes  a 

pas', 
No  cump'ny's  in  de  green  room,  an'  no  chilluns  on 

de  grass, 

No  ice  is  in  de  ice-house,  an'  no  milk  is  in  de  churn, 
An'  nar  a  happy  nigger  now  whicheber  way  you  turn. 
Nare  hoss  is  in  de  stable,  an'  de  kitchin  neber  smokes, 
De  people  in  de  neighborhood  is  mos'  all  stranger 

fokes. 
Deres  jes'  de  pines  an'  lowgroun's  dat  de  vis'tor  now 

may  see, 
Besides  my  wife,   Rebeccy,  an'  ole  Isaac,  which  is 

me. 
No  horn  blows  out  from  'neaf  de  trees,  no  houn's  de 

foxes  chase, 

De  dairy's  fell  to  pieces,  an'  de  farm  is  gone  to  was'e. 
De  cabins'  gone  to  ruin,  an'  de  orchard  is  mos'  dade, 


Uncle  Isaac  s  Lament.  189 

Ocmulgee  Stan's  all  lonesome,  an'  nuffin'  here  has 

stade, 
'Cept  our  ole  rickolictions,   an'   de  promise  for  de 

bles', 
When  all  dis  life  is  ober  an'  dar  come  to  us  Cord's 

res'. 
I   ain't   complainin'    caze   de   good    Lord's   chilluns 

cuarn't  complain — 

Bofe  jus'  an'  unjus'  yit  receibin'  ob  de  latter  rain — 
But  all  my  life  in  dis  worl'  dat  was  joyous  an'  was 

glad 

Is  in  de  pas'  behin'  me  wid  de  hap'nes'  dat  I  had. 
I   cuarn't  be  rickonciled  at  all  to  what  our  people 

does, 
De  Whiskey  is  like  Turpentime,  an'  nuffin'  what  hit 

was. 
De  sugar's  full  ob  san'  now,  an'  de  meal  is  groun'  too 

fine, 
De  neighbors  is  mo'  quar'lsome,  an'  few  pussons  is  so 

kine 
As  onct  cley  was  in  my  young  days  when  joy  was  in 

de  Ian', 


19°        Uncle  Isaac:  or  Old  Days  in  the  South. 

An'  fokes  had  'nuff  to  do,  Sar,  widdout  meddlin'  wid 

God's  plan. 
I  cuanrt  be  here  much  longer  for  I'm  gittin'  mighty 

ole — 
Lord   make   me   ready  to   be   g\vine   wheneber   T   is 

tole! 
An'  let  me  please  to  stay  right  here  an'  lib  in  de  ole 

ways 
Wid  peace  an,  my  Rebeccy  for  de  balunce  ob  my 

days.! 
We'se  bofe  done  retched  de  topmos'  pint  ob  life's 

resendin'  hill, 
An'  started  down  de  valley  whar  de  voice  ob  men  is 

still. 
Our  feet  is  creepin'  nigh  de  banks  ob  deff's  myster'- 

ous  stream, 
An'  life  is  come  to  look  jes'  like  'twarn't  nuffin'  but  a 

dream. 
Yistiddy,  Sar,  hit  seems  to  me  dat  me  an'  my  Marse 

Ran' 
Rid  out  wid  dat  ole  hoss-back  troop  dey  raised  in 

Powhatan. 


Uncle  Isaac's  Lament.  191 

Yistiddy,  M'am,  my  Becky's  ha'r  was  black  all  o'  her 

hade— 
A  sprightly  gal  whose  supplenes'  would  den,  I  clar, 

er  made 
A   willow   withe   a   bendin'    feel   ob   hit's   own   sef 

ashame, 
An'  nar  a  hick'ry  switch  could  hep'  but  feel  hitsef  de 

same. 
Yistiddv  bofe  ob  us  was  young,  an'  all  dis  Ian'  was 

glad, 
To-day  we'se  ole,  an'  nuffin's  lef  ob  all  de  Ian'  onct 

had. 

Yistiddy  hit  was  mornin'  an'  de  Sun  a  shinin'  bright, 
To-day  de  eb'nin'   shadders  is  a  runnin'   tow'd   de 

night. 
We   sho'   hab   retched   de   eb'nin'   time   ob   dis   our 

mortal  life, 
An'  soon  we  mus'  be  gwine  away,  ole  Isaac  an'  his 

wife. 
De  angel  wid  his  book  is  sarchin'  an'  he's  soon  gwine 

call, 


192        Uncle  Isaac:  or  Old  Days  in  the  South. 

An'  me  an'  my  Rebeccy  will  leab  here  for  good  an* 

all. 

We'se  gwine  away  my  chilluns,  Yas,  fo'  many  Sum 
mers  pas', 

An'  ob  de  ole  plantation  fokes  I  spose  we  is  de  las'. 
An'  now  jes'  fo  we  goes  to  sleep,  dat  sleep  from  which 

we'll  wake, 
My  mine  goes  back  from  night  time,  M'am,  to  when 

hit  'twas  daybreak. 
A  grave  is  yonder  'neaf  dat  tree,  an'  'neaf  hit  rests 

de  dade, 
An'  dars  de  cradle  settin'  dar  wharin  Marse  Ran'  onct 

laid. 
An'  dat's  de  distance  stretchin'  'twixt  de  cradle  an' 

de  grave, 

A  distance  dat  no  eyesight  nar  a  big  strain  eber  gave. 
But  night  ain't  black  an'  hor'bul,  for  in  hit  de  bright 

stars  shine, 
An'  ef  you'se  knowed  de  way  befo'  'tain't  nuffin'  to 

be  gwine 
Along  hits   stillnes'   happy   on   yo'   tramp   to   whar 

you'd  be; 


Uncle  Isaac's  Lament.  193 

For  him  who  knows  de  pines  an'  fiel's  'tain't  needful 

for  to  see 
De  pafs  dat  runs  through  dem,  no  matter  ef  dey 

twists  an'  tarns, 
You'se  only  got  to  walk  dat  way  which  in  de  day  you 

larns. 
An'  so  'tis  wid  de  eb'nin'  time  ob  life,  when  hit  is 

nigh — 
De  "  How-dy-do  "  ain't  sweeter  den  dat  good  ole 

word  "  Good-bye  " — 
For  dem  dat's  taught  a  mornin'  ob  de  way  de  Sabior 

trord, 
Is  boun'  to  walk  a  eb'nin'  time  along  wid  Him  to 

Gord. 
He  led  us  in  our  mornin'  an'  He'll  lead  us  in  our 

night, 
An'  Sar,  we  need  not  be  afraid,  we  ain't  gwine  los' 

His  light. 
Hit  shined  in  all  our  gloom,  M'am,  when  de  clouds 

come  in  de  day, 
Hit  still  will  shine  befo'  us  when  pale  deff  pints  out  de 

way. 

13 


194        Uncle  Isaac:  or  Old  Days  in  the  South. 

We  ain't  got  fur  to  go  when,  Sar,  de  angel's  call  is 

made, 
An'  den  de  sperret  flies  so  fas'  as  soon's  de  body's 

dade. 

Ole  David's  tole  us  in  de  Sams  dat  eben  wid  a  span 
We  fokes  may  medjure  all  de  way  'twixt  Heab'n  an' 

Powhatan. 

I'm  facin'  ob  de  future  but  my  mine  is  in  de  pas', 
De  mem'ry  fixin'  Isaac  for  de  man  he'll  be  at  las'. 
Caze  what  we'll  be,  Miss  Kate,  mus'  be  all  dat  we  did 

or  sade, 

An'  rickolictions  bein'  what  is  lef  when  we  is  dade, 
'Tis  sperret  mem'ry  dat  will  be  de  sperret  soul's  one 

pledge, 
When  hit  stan's  face  to  face  wid  Gord  an'  He  dat 

sole  will  jedge. 
I  cuarn't  destrain  mysef  from  lookin'  back  a  down 

de  years, 
An'  hit  'tis  dat  dat  makes  me  moan  an'  fetches  up 

dese  tears. 
Good  eb'nin'  my  young  Marster,  Gord  bless  you  bofe 

Miss  Kate. 


Uncle  Isaac's  Lament.  195 

You  don't  think  now  de  Sun  is  sot  dat  hit  'tis  not  too 

late 
For  you  to  be  a  walkin'  'cross  de  nigh  way  by  de 

crick? 
Caze  ef  you  does  I'll  go  wid  you.     De  ole  man  wid 

his  stick 
Is  pretty  peart  in  spite  ob  age,  an'  good  for  yit  a 

while — 
'Twould  be  a  pledjure,  Sarvant  Sar,  to  go  wid  you  my 

chile. 
All  right  young  Marster,  den  Good-bye,  you'se  like 

yo'  Par  a  man, 

An*  in  de  time  ob  war  dar  was  no  braver  in  his  Ian'. 
I'll  be  obleedged  Miss  Kate,  M'am,  ef  de  nex'  time 

dat  you  come, 
An'  you  kin  git  dat  Number  Six,  you'll  fetch  Rebeccy 

some. 
I'm   comin'   now   Rebeccy,   wife,   Miss   Kate  gwine 

come  a'gin. 
Please  come  Miss  Kate  tomorrer  an'  bring  her  dat 

medecine ! 


THE  PASSING  OF  REBECCA. 


REBECCY.' 


THE  PASSING  OF  REBECCA. 


Yo'   sarvant,   my  young  Mistis,   how-dy-do  to-day, 

Miss  Kate? 
1  seed  you  comin'  'cross  de  fiel',  an'  met  you  at  de 

gate 

To  let  you  in,  an'  tell  you  dat  Rebeccy's  mighty  ill, 
An's  got  so  dreadful  narvous  dat  we  keeps  de  room  as 

still 
As  we  kin  do  hit,  M'am.    Do'  she  ain't  one  dat  much 

complains — 

She's  got  a  heap  er  courage  when  hit  comes  to  stand- 
in'  pains. 
But  come  right  in,  young  Mistis,  she's  spoke  much 

ob  you  to-day, 
Do'   hit   'tain't  much  we  understands   ob  what   she 

tries  to  say. 

[201] 


202        Uncle  Isaac:  or  Old  Days  in  the  South. 

Come  in  Miss  Kate,  but  saftly  walk  when  you  gits 

on  de  flo'; 
She'll  be  rale  glad  to  see  you.     Mine  de  step  dar  at 

de  do' ! 
You  say  fo'  you  goes  in  de  house  you  wants  to  talk 

to  me? 
For  sartin,  M'am,  set  in  dat  char,  'tis  shady  'neaf  de 

tree. 
Yes  M'am,  I  got  de  Number  Six  you  sont  by  leetle 

Nade, 
An'  Nancy  fotched  the  wine  an'  tea,  de  sugar  an'  de 

brade 
She  sade  you  fixed  up  for  we  fokes,  an'  tole  her  for 

to  bring. 
You'se  good  to  us.     I  b'lieb,  Miss  Kate,  you  thinks 

ob  eb'rything 
Dat  we  all  needs.    You  is  dat  kine  you  mines  me  ob 

yo'  Mar, 
Jes'  like  Marse  Charley  always  mines  me  also  ob  yo' 

Par. 
No,  M'am,  de  Number  Six  dis  time  don't  seem  to 

retch  de  spot 


The  Passing  of  Rebecca.  203 

Wharin  her  ailin'  an'  her  mis'ry  'pears  to  now  hab 

got. 
Hit's  wuss  nor  cramps  de  doctor  ses.     I  b'lieb  de 

'sease  he.  named 
As  sumpthin'  in  de  bowels  dat  hab  got  too  much 

enflamed. 
Apendle-sea-tick  was  de  way  I  cotched  his  namin' 

word, 
But  den  I  cuarn't  be  sartin  dat  dat's  'zactly  what  I 

yeard. 
Dey's  got  new  names  for  things  dese  days,  an'  mos'ly 

dey  is  long, 
Heap  longer  den  dey  ust  er  be,  an'   may  be  I   is 

wrong. 
But  axin'  him  de  ailment,  he  reformed  me  dat  he 

foun' 
Apendle-sea-tick  in  her  bad,  leas'  dat's  de  way  hit 

soun', 
An'  I  was  doin'  all  I  could  to  ketch  what  'twas  he 

sade, 
But  to  sich  hard  an'  big  words  I'm  not  ekal  in  my 

hade. 


204         Uncle  Isaac:  or  Old  Days  in  the  South. 

Yistiddy  he  was  here  agin,  an'  felt  her  all  about, 
An'  sade  he  b'liebed  'twould  be  de  bes'  for  him  to  cut 

hit  out. 

But  den  he  'peared  to  hisitate  an'  'dopt  anodder  plan, 
Becaze  dat  cuttin'  at  dat  time  she  pos'bul  mout  not 

stan'. 
He  neber  gibed  her  nuffin',  but  he  made  some  liquid 

warm. 
An'  squirt  hit  through  a  syringe  in  de  back  part  ob 

her  arm. 
Hit  hope  her  much  a  hour  or  two,  an'  let  her  git 

some  sleep, 

But  arter  while  de  power  ob  dat  physic  failed  to  keep, 
An'  sence  den  she's  been  narvous  an'  so  res'les'  in  de 

bade, . 
Dat  eber  sence  way  in  las'  night  I'se  by  her  badeside 

staid. 
I  was  afeered  she  mout  git  up.    You  had  to  watch  her 

close, 

An'  offen  is  I  wished  she  had  anodder  syringe  dose 
Ob  what  ole  Doctor  Hambleton  had  squirted  in  her 

arm, 


The  Passing  of  Rebecca.  205 

For  nuffin'  M'am,  dat  we  could  do  made  her  de  leas' 

bit  calm. 
She  mos'ly  whispers  to  us  now,  she's  got  so  mighty 

weak, 
So  hit's  mo'  diffikilt  to  hear  air  word  she  tries  to 

speak. 
But  arly,  M'am,  dis  mornin'  fo'  her  hade  was  hurt 

wid  pain, 
We  understood  mos'  eb'ry  word  'twas  spoke  so  bery 

plain. 
She's  been  a  dreamin'  ob  de  pas',  de  pas'  to  us  so 

dear, 
Dat's  way  back  in  de  long  ago  an'  yit's  so  mighty 

near, 

'Twas  pitiful  to  hear  her  talk  as  ef  de  fokes  was  nigh, 
Who  long  ago  bofe  ob  us  saw  come  one  by  one  to 

die. 
She  seed  ole  Miss  an'  talked  to  her  jes'  like  she  was 

right  thar, 

A  settin'  in  her  chamber  an'  a  rockin'  in  her  char. 
She  tole  her  'bout  de  sheets  an'  bades  an'  'bout  de 

counterpane, 


206         Uncle  Isaac:  or  Old  Days  in  the  South. 

An'  whar  you  chilluns  had  done  gone  down  in  de 

grove  or  lane. 
She  talked  'bout  you  particular,  when  dar  by  her  side 

she  dreamed 
Yo'  Mammy  was  a  standin',  an'  I  clar  Miss  Kate,  hit 

seemed 

Almos'  as  ef  de  good  ole  time  had  come  to  us  agin, 
An'  we  was  libbin'  in  dem  days  dat  onct  our  fokes 

.  libbed  in. 
Hit  'twas  so  nat'rul  who  she  seed,  so  nat'rul  what  she 

spoke, 
Dat  I  could  almos'  b'lieb  I  had  been  'sleep  an'  den 

had  woke 

To  fine  myse'f  all  young  agin  a  plowin'  in  de  corn. 
An'  my  young  Marster  standin'  thar  a  blowin'  ob  his 

horn. 
She'd  tell  yo'  Mammy  'bout  yo'  room,  an'  ax  her 

'bout   yo'   dress, 
An'  'vise  her  'bout  yo'  dis  an'  dat  as  she  thunk  was 

de  bes'. 
Sometimes  hit  'twas  yo'  Mar  she  saw,  who  \vas  de 

leetle  girl, 


The  Passing  of  Rebecca.  207 

Whose  har  her  fingers  was  a  twistin'  up  into  a  curl, 
But  den  agin  'twas  you  she  seed,  an'  den  dar'd  come 

a  smile 
Upon  her  face  an'  linger  as  she  tole  us  'bout  her 

chile, 
An'  who  dat  chile  she  talked  'bout  was  bofe  me  an' 

Nancy  knew; 
For  dar  was  sumpthin'  in  her  manner  when  she  spoke 

ob  you 
Dat  tole  a  tale  ob  lub  dat  come  from  out  a  heart  as 

true 
As  sunshine  in  de  Summer  fallin'  out  de  skies  so 

blue, 
Tells  ob  de  good  Lord's  ^roodnes'  to  His  chilluns  in 

dis  woiT. 
She  lubbed  you  hard,  young  Mistis,  an'  you  was  her 

leetle  girl ! 
Yo'  Mammy  was  her  sister,  an'  when  she  couldn't 

be  about, 
Hit  'twas  Ant  Becky  in  her  place  who  ust  er  to  take 

you  out 


208         Uncle  Isaac:  or  Old  Days  in  the  South. 

To  walk,  or  watch  you  while  you  played  dar  under- 

neaf  de  trees — 
An'  nar  a  time  for  nuffin'  did  you  hab  to  ax  her 

please. 
She'd  gib  you  her  own  shadder,  M'am,  ef  hit  she 

could  er  cotched, 
An'  what  you  tole  her  for  to  git  'twarn't  long  befo' 

'twas  fetched. 
She  lubbed  you  like  yo'  Mammy,  an'  yo'  Mammy 

neber  mine, 
But  seemed  to  like  hit  caze  to  you  "  Sis  Becky  "  was 

so  kine. 
An'  yo'  ole  Mammy  lubbed  you  from  yo'  hade  down 

to  yo'  feet. 

In  ole  Virginny  nare  a  word  has  eber  soun'  as  sweet 
As  "  Mammy."    Dat's  de  name  dat  always  hurries  up 

a  smile, 
An'  fetches  back  de  good  ole  times  to  let  dem  stay 

a  while. 
An'  onct  she  b'liebed  she  saw  Marse  Ran',  an'  on  her 

face  come  joy, 


The  Passing  of  Rebecca.  209 

An',  M'am,  she  'peared  to  want  to  say,  dat's  Isaac's 

darlin'  boy. 
An'  so  he  was  young  Mistis,  an'  so  was  Marse  Ran' 

indeed. 

In  all  my  life  nar  sich  a  man  ole  Isaac  neber  seed. 
Dem    Yankees    neber    knowed    at    all    dat    hor'bul, 

bloody  day, 
What  kine  ob  sole  dey  loosened  for  de  Lord  to  take 

away. 
But  she  may  now  be  wantin'  me.     Come  Mistis  lets 

go  in, 
An'  ef  you  wants  to  ax  me  mo'  I'll  come  out  here 

agin. 
Come  in  Miss  Kate  an'  see  her,  she'll  be  glad  to  see 

yo'  face, 
You'll  fine  a  char  dar  nigh  her  bade  nex'  to  de  fier- 

place. 
How  is  she  doin'  Nancy  now?    She  'pears  to  me  mo' 

still. 
You  thinks  she's  done  got  weaker,  an'  you'se  feered 

she's  got  mo'  ill? 

14 


2io         Uncle  Isaac:  or  Old  Days  in  the  South. 

Miss  Kate  how  does  you  think  she  is?     Yas  M'am, 

she's  awful  weak, 
An'  gittin  weaker  eb'ry  hour.     Tis  time  de  Lord  to 

seek. 

An'  yit  I  is  been  seekin'  Him  all  eb'ry  night  an'  day. 
He'se  yeard  my  prars,  I  kno',  but  den  He'se  gwine 

hab  His  good  way. 
Hit's  hard  to  rickoncile  down  here  de  answers  to  yo' 

prar 
When    He'se    done    odder    den    you    axed.      We'll 

rickoncile  up  thar. 
She's  passin'  from  de  doctor's  power,  nobody  but  de 

Lord 
Kin  step  in  now  an'  stop  de  breakin'  ob  her  life's  gole 

cord. 
Her  eyes  is  shettin'  like  in  sleep,  but  dat  I  kno'  ain't 

sleep. 
Dat  shettin'  ob  her  eyes,  Miss  Kate,  gwine  open  mine 

to  weep. 
Please  'scuse  me,  my  young  Mistis,  I  didn't  mean  to 

'low  dat  groan, 


The  Passing  of  Rebecca.  211 

But   hit   hurts   me   so   awful   bad   to   hear   Rebeccy 

moan. 
Hit  feels  jes'  like  a  splinter  had  been  run  into  my 

sole, 
An'  lets  my  own  life  run  right  out  untwell  I  gits  dat 

cole 
I  shivers  an'  my  heart  has  cotched  a  rheumatic  ob 

woe 
Dat  makes  me  answer  wid  a  groan  at  onct  befo'  I 

kno' 
What  I  am  doin'.    Please  don't  cry  Miss  Kate,  please 

M'am,  don't  cry ! 
Hit  may  be  dat  de  good  Lord  yit  ain't  gwine  to  let 

her  die. 
Yas  M'am,  I  kno'  clat  hope  is  gwine.     She's  dyin', 

yas,  I  see. 
My  Becky's  fadin'  out  ob  life,  my  wife  is  gwine  lef 

me, 

Lef  me  de  ole  man  trimblin'  an'  so  wa'ry  in  his  age. 
Good   Lord,   do  tell  de  angel  for  to  turn  anodder 

page 


212         Uncle  Isaac:  or  Old  Days  in  the  South. 

In  his  big  book  whar  Isaac's  name  is  writ  an'  time  is 

tole, 
An'  tell  his  sole  come  long  right  now  a  jiniir  wid  her 

sole! 

For  O  my  Lord,  how  will  I  stan'  dis  siperation  here 
From  her  who  'mong  all  peoples  is  to  me  de  mostes' 

dear? 
Please  git  de  Prar  Book  Nancy,  hit  is  ober  dar  some- 

whar, 
An'  please  Miss  Katie  open  hit  an'  read  out'n  hit  a 

prar, 
Dat  ef  de  good  Lord  wills  hit  my  Rebeccy  may  yit 

stay 
Mo'  longer  here  wid  Isaac,  an'  please  den  Miss  Katie 

pray, 
Dat  ef  she  mus'  go  yonder  whar  de  troubled  is  at 

res', 
He'll  take  her  wid  His  angels  in  de  mansions  ob  de 

bles'. 
I  thanky,  M'am,  she's  easyer,  but  she's  fadin',  fadin' 

now, 
Jes'  like  a  vi'let  wilts  away  beneaf  de  fros'  I  'low. 


The  Passing  of  Rebecca.  213 

Rebeccy  does  you  kno'  me?     I'se  jes'  been  out  to 

de  gate, 
An'  dis  is  our  young  Mistis,  don't  you  kno'  her?  'tis 

Miss  Kate. 
I  b'lieb  she  yeard  an'  understood  what  hit  was  dat  I 

sacle, 
Hit  sartin  'peared  to  me  as  ef  she  tried  to  nod  her 

hade. 
An'  now  her  eyes  is  openin',  an'  she  knows  us  bpfe,  I 

b'lieb. 
Thank   you,   my  blessed   Savior,   for   dis   blessin'   I 

receib ! 
Speak  to  her  now  Miss  Katie,  please  speak  to  her 

now,  don't  cry, 

'Twill  cheer  her  up  a  leetle  as  de  valley  drawef  nigh. 
Or  hit  may  be  Gord's  marcy  will  yit  leab  her  here  a 

while 
To  longer  work  an'  pray.     Look!   look,    Miss  Kate, 

you  see  dat  smile 
Come  slowly  on  her  sacred  face?     Her  lips  is  mur- 

m'rin'  too, 
An'  I  mos'  kno'  'tis  meant  to  be  a  welcomin'  for  you. 


214         Uncle  Isaac:  or  Old  Days  in  the  South. 
> 
An'  did  you  hear  her  den,  Miss  Kate,  in  dat  one 

whispered  word? 
I'm  sho'  she  sade  "  Good-bye,"  dat's  hit,  "  Good-bye," 

dat's  what  I  yeard. 
Gord  bles'  you  my  sweet  Mistis,  for  dat  ole  time 

Mammy  kiss ! 

I  kno'  hit  let  her  body  tas'e  onct  mo'  a  erfly  bliss. 
An'  now  I'se  kissed  her  too  onct  mo'.    Kin  hit  be  my 

las'  time 
Befo'  she  sees  de  golden  stars  an'  up  dem  starts  to 

clime? 
She's  lookin'  at  me  now  agin.    Gord  bles'  dem  sweet 

ole  eyes, 
Dey  will  be  watchin'  me  so  soon  from  out  ob  Gord's 

blue  skies ! 
Dar,  dar,  I  yeard  hit  sho'  dis  time,  wid  deff's  cole 

han'  so  nigh ! 
Hit   come   so   plain   upon   my   ears,    "  Isaac,    Isaac, 

Good-bye !  " 

Good-bye  Rebeccy,  far — farwell,  Gord's  got  you  in 
His  arm, 


The  Passing  of  Rebecca.  215 

You'se  in  de  valley  ob  de  shadder,  but  you  won't 

meet  harm, 
Through  all  de  darkness  an'  de  danger  Gord  yo'  sole 

will  take, 
An'  in  de  takin'  ob  Gord's  chile  no  mistake  will  Christ 

make. 
Feel  Nancy.    Does  you  feel  her  heart  give  yit  a  single 

beat? 
Done  stopped !     Good-bye  my  wife,  Rebeccy  always 

good  an'  sweet! 
My  eyes  won't  cry,  Miss  Kate,  my  heart  jes'  aches, 

my  lips  cuarn't  groan, 
My  life's  done   gone,   done  gone,   done   gone,   ole 

Isaac's  lef  alone! 

Alone  in  all  de  ole  man's  age,  alone  in  all  his  pain ! 
But  Gord  will  gib  him  strength  an'  peace  so  dat  he 

cuarn't  complain. 
Alone  'mongst  all  de  strangers,  alone  'mongst  dem 

dat's  born 
In  dese  new  days  dat  he  don't  kno' !    Rebeccy  is  you 

gone? 


216         Uncle  Isaac:  or  Old  Days  in  the  South. 

Gone  from  yo'  husban'  Isaac,  gone  up  to  yo'  heab'nly 

res'? 
I  don't  kno'  how  he'll  stan'  hit,  but  Cord's  done  hit 

for  de  bes'. 
"  Don't  let  yo'  heart  git  troubled,  an'  don't  let  hit 

git  afraid," 
Dat's  what  de  Scriptur  tells  you   is  de  words  de 

Savior  sade. 
I  feels  yo'  han',  Miss  Katie,  M'am,  you  blessed  angel 

chile ! 
You  wants  to  lead  me  to  de  char  to  set  in  hit  a 

while? 
I  cuarn't  set  down  now  Honey,  please  jes'  let  de  ole 

man  stay 
Right  here  by  his  Rebeccy  dade,  to  look  an'  lub,  an* 

pray. 
You'se  cryin'  hard  yo'se'f  my  chile,  you  set  down  in 

de  char. 
Ole  Isaac's  lef  here  by  hese'f,  Rebeccy,  she's  gone 

thar! 
But   when   de   angel   trumpet's   blowin'   from   whar 

angels  bide 


The  Passing  of  Rebecca.  217 

Rebeccy'll   come  for  Isaac,   an'   she'll   be  his  angel 

guide. 
She's  in  de  good  Lord's  presense  an'  a  jinin'  in  de 

song 
De  angels  sing  befo'  Him,  an'  hit  sho'ly  cuarn't  be 

long 
Befo'  ole  Isaac's  Sun  gwine  down  behin'  de  trees  an' 

set. 
Rebeccy,   I'm   a   comin',   may   de   Lord   my   moans 

forget ! 
I  almos'  hear  de  angels'  call,  hit  mus?  be  nigh  my 

day, 
An'  you'll  come  down  Rebeccy,  for  to  sho'  me  up  de 

way. 
Why  Nancy,  is  you  let  dat  chile  go  'lone  dis  time  a 

night? 
I  could  a  walked  along  wid  her.     My  Nancy,  hit' 

'twarn't  right. 
But  nar  a  sole  gwine  tech  dat  chile,  o'  her  de  angels 

watch, 
An'  when  she  knocks  on  heaben's  do'   dar'll  be  a 

hysted  latch. 


2i8         Uncle  Isaac:  or  Old  Days  in  the  South. 

Go  tell  de  neighbors  'bout  hit  please.     Dey'll  come 

an'  do  deir  part. 
Rebeccy,  Isaac's  comin' !    Yo'  deff  is  broke  his  heart ! 


UNCLE   ISAAC   IN   THE   SONG. 


UNCLE  ISAAC  IN  THE  SONG. 


Sing  low,  my  Mistis,  low,  sing  low,  dat  is  de  ole 

time  tune 
We  yeard  in  de  ole  happy  days  when  all  de  months 

was  June. 
Sing  low,  my  Mistis,  low,  sing  low,  dat  is  de  song 

Miss  Kate. 

I  spec'  dat  my  Rebeccy  mus'  be  lis'nin'  at  de  gate. 
She'll  cotch  dem  words  an'  'member,  dey's  de  ones 

she  lubbed  so  well. 
'Twas  in  dem  words  all  on  us  onct  our  hap'nes'  ust 

er  tell, 
A  voicin'  ob  our  gladnes',  an'  a  chantin'  in  sweet 

hope, 
Wid  dem  sweet  soun's  ob  music  twisted  up  jes'  like 

a  rope, 

[221] 


222         Uncle  Isaac:  or  Old  Days  in  tJie  South. 

An'  stretchin'  an'  a  stretchin'  from  de  yearth  up  to 

de  skies — 
Our  soles  a  shinin'  an'  a  speakin'  in  our  yearnin' 

eyes. 
Sing  low,  my  Mistis,  low,  sing  low,  I'm  libbin'  in  de 

pas', 
Sing  low,  my  Mistis,  low,  sing  low,  an'  let  dis  pled- 

jur  las'. 
Yo'  Par  is  comin'  out'n  de  house,  yo'  Mar  is  on  de 

lawn, 
Marse  Ran'  is  whistlin'  at  de  barn,  nobody  now  is 

gone. 
Sing    low,    my    Mistis,    low,    sing    low,    de    music's 

cotched  my  sole, 
I  feels  my  days  come  back  agin,  I'm  done  forgot  I'm 

ole. 
Unk'   Julyus'   in  de  dinin'   room,   an'   Mary's  at  de 

churn, 
An'  Peyton's  on  de  carridge  box  a  drivin'  roun'  de 

turn. 

I  hear  de  cradles  swishin',  an'  de  san'  upon  de  blade, 
An'  nar  a  sweeter  music  in  dis  Ian'  was  eber  made. 


Uncle  Isaac  in  the  Song.  223 

Sing  low,  my  Mistis,  low,  sing  low,  Yas,  dar's  yo 

tinkle  Bill, 
An'  yonder  comes  de  cows  a  windin'  up  de  cow-lot 

hill, 
Dar's  Austin'  too  a  drivin'  dem,  an'  dar  is  Nancy 

Ann, 
Dey'll  stan'  for  her  to  milk  dem  like  for  nare  one  else 

dey'll  stan'. 
Sing  low,  my  Mistis,  low,  sing  low,  dat  song  ob  long 

ago— 
De  bloom  is  on  cle  clover,  an'  de  Summer  breezes 

blow. 
Sing  low,  my  Mistis,  low,  sing  low,   I  trimble  I'm 

so  glad, 
Dar's  comin'  back  in  music  thought  ob  all  dem  things 

we  had. 
Sing  low,  my  Mistis,  low,  sing  low,  I  hear  unk'  John 

agin 
A  playin'  on  his  banjo  for  de  dance  we'se  gwine  jine 

in. 
Dar's  Poleyun  an'  ole  Frances — lean  de  hoe  aginst  de 

plow, 


224        Uncle  Isaac:  or  Old  Days  in  the  South. 

Dat's  Isaac  an'  Rebeccy,  dey's  gwine  sho'  you  sump- 
thin'  now. 

Sing  low,  my  Mistis,  low,  sing  low,  full  is  de  abenue 
Ob  gentle  fokes  a  comin'  to  de  weddin'  ob  Miss  Sue. 
Sing  low,  my  Mistis,  low,  sing  low,  I  hears  agin  de 

drum, 
An'  yonder  is  yo'  Par  a  gwine,  Marse  Ran'  an'  me 

gwine  come. 

I  hears  de  war  a  breakin',  an'  I  sees  de  bloody  dade, 
A  thousan'  things  is  ramblin'  wid  de  music  in  my 

hade. 
Sing  low,  my  Mistis,  low,  sing  low,  What  makes  you 

sing  so  low? 

Hit's  all  a  fadin,  fadin,  ob  dem  years  ob  long  ago. 
Sing    low,    my    Mistis,    low,    sing    low,    you    sings 

M'am  mos'  too  low. 

De  trees  is  sot  to  sighin'  an'  de  ribber  runs  mo'  slo'. 
An'  in  de  pines  'tis  gittin'  dark,  dem  faces  fade 

away, 
De  music  dream  is  passin',  but  hit  brung  me  back  a 

day 


Uncle  Isaac  in  the  Song.  225 

Dat  was  cle  sunshine  ob  my  life,  de  joy  ob  all  my 

fokes. 
'Tis  strange  how  out  de  long  ago  dese  things  de 

music   coax. 
Sing  low,  my  Mistis,  low,  sing  low,  sing  low,  sing 

low,  Miss  Kate, 
You  hear  de  whippowill,  de  Sun's  gwine  down,  'tis 

late,  'tis  late. 
We  mus'  be  gwine.    Sing  low,  sing  low,  sing  low,  jes' 

one  line  mo' 
In  dat  ole  tune.     Sing  low,  sing  low,  my  Mistis,  low, 

sing  low— 

A  driftin'  out  er  hearin'  like  de  sunshine  out  er  sight; 
Low,   low,   so   low.      Hit's  gone,   my  Mistis,   gone, 

Ole  time  good  night. 


THE  PASSING  OF  UNCLE  ISAAC. 


THE  PASSING  OF  UNCLE  ISAAC. 


I  kno'ed  you'd  come,  Marse  Charley,  Good  Ebenin' ! 

How  does  I  do? 
I'm  poly  an'  I  cuarn't  las'  long,  Marse  Charley  how  is 

you? 
Miss  Kate  cuarn't  come.     Yas  Sar,  I  yearn  dat  she'd 

done  gone  away 
To  see  her  Ant,  Miss  Mary.     Is  she  gwine  make 

much  er  stay? 
I  spec'  she  won't  see  me  no  mo',  de  ole  man's  gwine 

dis  time. 

An'  I  ain't  sorry,  not  at  all,  dat  kin  not  be  a  crime. 
You  don't  think  so  young  Marster,  you  don't  think 

dat  dat  is  wrong, 
When  all  my  wurk  is  done  down  here  an'  yonder  I 

belong? 

Mos'  all  my  gineration's  gone  beyant  de  lofty  skies — 

[229] 


230        Uncle  Isaac:  or  Old  Days  in  the  South. 

Hit  'tain't  gwine  make  no  diffrunce  'bout  when  one 

mo'  ole  man  dies. 
De  worl'  won't  neber  miss  me,  an'  de  people  won't 

complain; 
Dey'll  shed  no  tears  o'  Isaac,  an'  his  deff  won't  gib 

no  pain. 

I  am  so  ole  an'  crippled  up  I  ain't  no  count  no  mo'. 
I'll  be  obleedged  Marse  Charley  ef  you'll  kinely  shet 

dat  do'. 
I'm  gittin'   ole,   an'   any  draf  gits  pow'ful  nigh   de 

bone. 
My  rheumatics  is  techy,  an'  dey  constant  makes  me 

groan 
When  through  de  do'  de  Winter  air  comes  driftin'  in 

so  cole. 
You  cuarn't  stan'  what  you  ust  er  stan'  arfter  you 

gits  so  ole. 

I'm  glad  I'm  gwine,  Marse  Charley,  for  I'm  lone- 
sum  now  down  here, 

An'  yonder  whar  de  angels  lib  is  many  fokes  so  dear. 
Ole  Marster's  gone  dis  many  a  day,  an'  Mistis'  she's 

gone  too, 


The  Passing  of  Uncle  Isaac.  231 

Marse  Peyton,   an'   Marse  Ran',   Miss  Ann,   Marse 

Willyum,  an'  Miss  Sue; 
Dey   all   in   dat   procession   passed   on   through   de 

heab'nly  gate — 

What  for  kin  I  a  po'  ole  man  want  longer  for  to  wait? 
My  wife  is  dar,  Unc'  Caesar,  an'  Unc'  Andrew,  an' 

ole  Nat, 
Dey  too  has  crossed  de  shinin'  ribber  whar  de  ange — , 

What's  dat? 
*          ******** 

I  yearn  a  gentle  whisper  like  a  banjo  playin'  near, 
In  leetle  notes  ob  music,  dat  come  saftly  to  my  ear. 
I  b'lieb  hit  'twas  de  angels.  Would  de  good  Lord  do 

me  so, 
Sen'  angels  for  to  welcome  me  upon  dat  peaceful 

sho'? 
I  cuarn't  be  good  enuff  for  sich  a  blessin',  hit  'tain't 

me 

Dem  blessed  singin'  angels  was  a  tryin'  for  to  see. 
'Tis  gone  agin.  May  be  hit  'twarn't  one  ob  dem  pale 

deff's  signs, 


232         Uncle  Isaac:  or  Old  Days  in  the  South. 

But  jes'  de  wile  win'  driftin'  through  de  wavy  lo\v- 

groun'  pines. 
De  ole  plantation  now  ain't  like  what  onct  hit  ust  er 

be, 
Befo'  dem  Yankees  fotched  us  wrar  an'  sot  de  niggers 

free. 
De  weeds  is  in  de  meadow,  an'  de  pastur  ain't  no 

count, 
An'  nar  a  hoss,  Marse  Charley,  dat  is  fit  for  you  to 

mount. 
De  house  is  rick'ty,  an'  de  barns  an'  stable's  mos' 

fell  down, 

De  fences  is  all  busted  an'  a  rottin'  on  de  groun'; 
De  niggers'   changed  for  wuster,  an'   dey's  lef  dis 

good  ole  place, 
An'  ob  de  things  dat  onct  was  our'n  dars  scacely  lef 

a  trace. 
My  heart  mos'  break  when  Marster  died,  an'  eber 

sence  dat  day 
I   larned  to  kno'   dat   I   don't  suit  dese  fokes  new 

fashion  way. 
I  lub  dat  cradle  in  de  barn,  I  lub  de  ole  time  plowr, 


The  Passing  of  Uncle  Isaac.  233 

I  don't  like  none  de  fangled  things  de  'ventions  brung 

us  now. 
De  rose  is  drapped  from  off  de  poach,  mos'  dried  up 

is  de  spring — 

Some  ebil's  come  upon  de  Ian'  an'  ruined  eb'rything. 
Hit  'pears  to  me  de  lan's  got  po',  de  skies  ain't  near 

so  blue, 
Mos'  eb'rything  is  ole  or  gone  an'  Isaac's  gwine  now 

too. 
De  Sun's  gwine  down  Marse  Charley,  ain't  hit?     So 

hit  'pears  to  me. 
Hit's  gittin'  dark  in  here,  so  dark,  I  scace  kin  hardly 

see. 
Whar's  Nancy?    Nancy  git  de  light'ud  an'  make  a 

leetle  light, 
Marse  Charley  don't  want  set  in  here  when  hit's  as 

black  as  night. 
You  say  you'se  done  hit,  you'se  done  lit  hit?    Nancy 

is  you  sho'? 
Why,  Honey,  bless  you,  I  cuarn't  see  no  mo'n  I  could 

befo'. 


234        Uncle  Isaac:  or  Old  Days  in  the  South. 

I'm  feelin'  coler  too  now,  an'  a  chill's  come  in  my 

bres', 
I  spec'  dis  is  a  sartin  sign  'tain't  long  befo'  my  res'. 

*  *          ******* 

Is  dat  you  callin'  'Poleyun,  you'se  gwine  hab  a  dance 

to-night? 
Dat's  good !    De  clouds  is  gone  by,  an'  de  moon'll  be 

shinin'  bright. 
We'll  meet  down  by  de  cabin  dar  beneaf  de  big  oak 

tree. 
Unc'  John  will  fetch  his  banjo,  an'  my  Becky'll  come 

wid  me. 

*  *          ******* 

Yas  Sar,  yo'  hoss  is  ready  an'  a  standin'  at  de  rack, 
Marse   Ran'    done   blowed   his   horn   an'   rid   down 
yonder  wid  de  pack. 

*  *          ******* 

Yas  M'am,  I  see  dem  playin',  dey's  out  yonder  in  de 

Sun; 
I'se  tole  ole  Nat,  Yas  M'am,  he  ses  de  dinner's  almos' 

done. 

*  *          ******* 


The  Passing  of  Uncle  Isaac.  235 

Tears  like  I'se  been  a  dreamin'  ob  de  ole  days  dat  is 

pas', 
I  saw  de  ole  fokes  on  de  poach,  de  chilluns  on  de 

grass, 

I  yeard  de  banjo  playin',  an'  I  yeard  de  niggers  sing 
Dat  song  about  de  lowgroun's,   an'   I   danced  like 

eb'rything. 
Ouch!     Ouch,  Marse  Charley,  dars  a  nawful  mis'ry 

settin'  in 

My  chist.    My  battle  wid  de  inimy  is  gwine  begin. 
Lord  Jesus,  I  is  not  afeered,  I  lubbed  you  all  my 

life, 
I  larnt  to  from  dat  angel  dat  on  erf  was  onct  my 

wife. 
I'm  ready  now  to  leab  here,  an'  to  come  to  you  dis 

day. 
I  b'liebs  in  you,  Lord  Jesus,  please  wash  all  my  sins 

away ! 
Marse  Charley  pray  a  prar  for  me;  an'  would  you  hole 

my  hade? 
I  hilt  Marse  Ran'  dat  way  when  dem  mean  Yankees 

shot  him  dade. 


236        Uncle  Isaac:  or  Old  Days  in  the  South. 

Hit  feels  so  good,  Marse  Charley.     Bar!  I  hear  de 

music's  hum- 
Good-bye  Marse  Charley,  far—,  farwell— .    Rebeccy, 

I'se  done  come ! 


THE  OLD  SONG. 


THE  OLD  SONG. 


Down   in   the   lowgrounds   where   the   rustic   cabin 

stands, 

And  pines  lean  gaunt  against  the  sky, 
I  hear  again  the  weird  carousing  of  the  hands, 
Their  low  and  quaint  old  lullaby. 
Moaning  and  crooning  and  strong, 
Through  the  grove  it  sweeps  along, 
The  low,  sadj  negro's  song. 

Again  'tis  moonlight  in  a  year  long  gone  away — 

The  Summer  breeze  a  perfume  brings 
From  down  the  sleeping  meadow  sweet  with  new 

mown  hay, 

And  wastral  chant  of  one  who  sings. 
Moaning  and  crooning  and  strong, 
Through  the  grove  it  sweeps  along, 
The  low,  sad,  negro's  song. 
[239] 


240        Uncle  Isaac:  or  Old  Days  in  the  South. 

Now  like  the  soughing  wind,  in  solemn,  rhymeless 

lay, 

So  soft  and  low  and  sad  it  swells; 
Then  stronger  still  the  chorus  bursts  in  sadder  way, 
As  it  some  superstition  tells. 

Moaning  and  crooning  and  strong, 
Through  the  grove  it  sweeps  along, 
The  low,  sad,  negro's  song. 

Beyond  the  fields  and  \voods  the  music  fades  and  dies, 

Then  as  inspired  begins  again; 
The  bending  pines  harmonious  with  their  plaintive 

sighs 

Blend  kindly  with  the  weirder  strain. 
Moaning  and  crooning  and  strong, 
Through  the  grove  it  sweeps  along, 
The  low,  sad,  negro's  song. 

O,  night  of  year  from  out  my  happy  past  remain  ! 

Come  back  from  out  those  days,  Old  Song ! 
Sing  softly,  murmur,  croon  ye  men  its  old  refrain, 
My  memory  holds  it  yet  too  strong. 
Moaning  and  crooning  and  strong, 
Through  the  grove  it  sweeps  along, 
The  low,  sad,  negro's  song. 


MAMMY. 


MAMMY. 


Did  you  hear  me  praying  Mammy  when  you  heard 

the  angels'  call? 
I  was  sitting  on  the  cricket  near  the  staircase  in  the 

hall. 
They  told  me  you  were  going  to  my  mother  over 

there; 
And  I  told  the  Lord  I  loved  you  in  the  mystery  of 

prayer. 
I  remember  you,  old  Mammy,  in  the  days  of  long 

ago, 
When  a  lad  in  many  a  mischief  I  poured  out  to  you 

my  woe. 
I  remember  well  the  hoe-cake  that  you  gave  me  every 

noon, 
And  the  bed  in  which  you  put  me  every  night,  I 

thought  too  soon. 

[243] 


244         Uncle  Isaac:  or  Old  Days  in  the  South. 

I  can  still  say  "  Now  I  lay  me,"  which  you  nightly 

prompted  then, 
With  the  following  petitions  to  the  last  word,  and 

Amen. 
And  with  crooning  song  you  won  me  to  the  blessed 

rest  of  sleep; 
My  peace  was  yours,  old  Mammy,  and  when  weeping 

you  did  weep. 
Boy  and  man  you  loved  me  Mammy,  man  and  boy  I 

loved  you  too, 
And    the    bond    of    love's    own    making    binds    me 

Mammy  still  to  you. 
They  have  told  me  in  the  graveyard  you  lie  buried 

with  the  dead, 
But  I  knew  they  were  mistaken  when  to  me  these 

words  they  said. 
For  thy  soul  hath  lifted  upward,  and  on   Nature's 

kindly  breast 
Thy   worn   body   is   contenting   in    the    ministry   of 

rest. 
You   have   met   again   my   mother  in   the   meed   of 

sacrifice, 


Mammy.  245 

And  the  angels  at  that  meeting  heard  my  name  in 

Paradise. 
I  can  hear  you  calling,  Mammy,  now  from  where  the 

angels  stay, 
And  I'm  coming,  dear  old  Mammy,  when  they  show 

me,  too,  the  way. 


THE  END. 


THIS  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  LAST  DATE 
STAMPED  BELOW 


RENEWED  BOOKS  ARE  SUBJECT  TO  IMMEDIATE 
RECALL 


LIBRARY,  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA,  DAVIS 

Book  Slip-25w-6,'66(G3855s4)458 


N9   576547 


PS2649 

Powers,  W.D.  P85 

Uncle   Isaac.  U5 


LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
DAVIS 


